






t 


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JUDITH CARSON; 


WHICH WAS THE HEIRESS I 


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PLATT. 


^ IBRAhr 
OF T HE 

fiUP.'. COUNCIL, 
-O.-JURISDICTIOL 


ROCHESTER, N. Y. 

E. 11. ANDREWS, PUBLISHER, 1 AQUEDUCT STREET. 

1887 . 


TZs 


Copyright, 1887, 

BY 

• W. H. Platt. 


. Exchange 

of supreme Council A.A.S*R* 

Aus lO| 1940 


\ 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

I. The Meeting, 1 

II. The Carpenters, . i . . . . 7 

III. The Party, 11 

IV. The' Undercurrent, . . . . . 15 

V. The Axle with One Wheel, - - - - 23 

VI. The Spy, 29 

VII. The Flight and The Exchange, - - - 

VIII. The Divorce, 56 

IX. The Bankrupt, 63 

X. Art, 67 

XI. The Carnival, 77 

XII. The Convalescent, 91 

XIII. Antipathies, - 102 

XIV. The Revolutionists, 108 

XV. The Prisoner, 139 

XVI. The Escape, - - - - - - >145 

XVII. The Alps, - - 167 

XVIII. Homeward, 175 

XIX. The Knife, 188 

XX. A Chapter mainly for Lawyers, - - 198 

XXL What Followed, 215 

XXII. The Estate, 220 

XXIII. “This is the Child,” 228 

XXIV. The Murder, 243 

XXV. The Marriage, 250 

XXVI. The Last, - 255 



-l' ' 


LIBRARY 

OF THE 

SUP.'.COUNCIL, 

SO.-JURISDlCT!C:N. 

JUDITH CARSON; 

OR, 

Which was the Heiress. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE MEETING. • 

The meetings of destiny are never anticipated as such. 
^George Parram, the son of wealthy parents, had just 
<3ome to the Bar with every possible worldly advantage. 
Nature had given him a clear, active, tenacious intel- 
lect, and there was no reason, except a want of moral, 
or rather religious, training, so common even to those 
most blessed — or cursed — with ample means, why he 
should not have been a man of mark. 

One night, at the beginning of the summer, in the 

year , as he was strolling along the brilliantly lighted 

streets in the upper part of the city of New York, he 
chanced to meet a clergyman, a former visitor at his 
father’s house. As they walked and talked, they came 
to the front of a public hall, into which George Parram 
proposed they should step, for a moment, to witness the 
closing exercises of the Public High School for girls. 
Thinking it would be the most agreeable subject to his 
young friend, the Eev. Mr. Carpenter remarked play- 
fully, to draw him on to further talk, ^^It is natural 
that you should be more attracted by the pretty scholars 
than by any interest in the schools themselves. ” 

Of course,” replied Parram. My interest is in the 
girls, not the schools.” 


2 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

‘‘Why don’t you marry ?” 

“Because girls are such simpletons. I soon lose- 
interest in their nonsense and pretty faces. When I can 
find a girl of intellect, without gush — none of your soft, 
amiable, and, excuse me, religious sort, I may think dif- 
ferently. ” 

This clergyman, thus accidentally met, was one who 
took the world as he found it, and was not always quar- 
relling with it because it was not as he would have it. 
So he remarked not the least reproachfully, “You can 
easily be suited then. But somehow, I think you will 
find that a woman who has more head than heart, more 
doubt than faith, more pride than piety, is apt to drift 
upon very dangerous seas. ” 

By this time they had reached the standing place in 
the vestibule of the hall, in which a vast audience had 
assembled to hear the compositions, the songs, the salu- 
tatory and valedictorian addresses, usual on such com- 
mencement occasions. Scores of girls of all ages, rich 
and poor, were arranged on terraced seats on the stage, 
and presented a spectacle captivating to any beholder. 
Nothing out of heaven is more interesting to the pure 
and good, than well-dressed and tastefully distributed 
groups of children, especially girls. To see these chil- 
dren was indeed a picture. They were all free from care, 
and happy. Their bright eyes and smiling faces told a 
thousand stories. The brilliant lights, the large assem- 
bly, the music, the fiowers, the exercises, and the vaca- 
tion before them, filled their young hearts with joy which 
spoke out in every ringlet on there fair young brows, in 
every wave and sway of their elastic bodies, and in every 
motion of their pretty hands. 

Our two visitors paused for a moment at the threshold, 
and took in the beautiful scene. Just then a graduate 


3 


The Meeting. 

came forward to deliver the valedictory to the school. 
At first she might have been thought to be quite up to, 
if not a little taller than the classic standard ; but any 
attention to her stature was soon lost in the clear bright- 
ness of her dark eyes — something impenetrably beauti- 
ful and flashing, distant, and yet so challenging. The 
principal led her to the front of the platform, and intro- 
duced her — Miss Carson,’’ her subject — Progress ! ” 
Before she begins her address, the reader may know that 
Judith Carson was the daughter of a very rich, but in 
some respects peculiar citizen. He- had a fanatical dis- 
like to sectarian schools, because they taught religion. 
His idea was, that children ought not to be influenced 
in religious matters ; but that they ought to be educated 
in the general studies of schools as far as practicable, 
and then left to settle their religion for themselves, when 
grown and able to do their own thinking. He was rather 
close with his money ; and, as private religious schools 
would have been to him an expense outside of his taxes, 
it may be that, unconsciously, economy was one of his 
reasons for being so very earnest in the cause of free 
schools. But now Judith, remarkable for no special 
manner, after recognizing her audience, partly read and 
partly spoke, memoriter, this speech: 

^^My teachers, classmates and companions: In the- 
retrospect of our past school days, we have stepped, in 
a few years, from darkness into marvelous light. When 
we came to our revealing tasks, fear shook our childish 
souls at every roll of the thunder, and dreadful demons 
lurked in every shadow. To our apprehensions, super- 
nal power rode down all human strength, and every nerve 
was a cable, chaining us to misery. We trembled under 
the ignorant imaginings of earlier ages, when a god was 
in the wind, in the fire, and in the sea. But science met 


4 Judith Carson ; or. Which was the Heiress. 

us here and lifted the veil that superstition had hung 
before material forms. The Priests and their craft are 
no more. We now stand in nature’s undefined presence, 
with no scales before our eyes and no fear in our souls. 
The crucible of science takes the place of the censor of 
religion, the deepest sacrament is poured in liquids from 
nature’s heart, and man stands proudly in knowledge 
where he once knelt blindly in faith.” 

Just then, as Judith incautiously approached the un- 
guarded foot-lights, the gossamer illusion which floated 
like a cloud of mist over an underskirt of creamy silk, 
in which she was dressed, caught fire, to the consterna- 
tion of the vast assembly, which instinctively rose to 
their feet ; but George Parram, who had gradually drawn 
nearer the stage, and had reached the very chairs of the 
orchestra, sprang, at a bound, upon the stage, and smoth- 
ered the flames. The audience, too breathless to applaud, 
resumed their seats ; Judith’s magnificent silk was only 
the more conspicuous for the accident ; George Parram 
leaped back to the floor of the hall, and the speech went 
on. If George Parram and J udith Carson had been in 
the least superstitious, they might have thought this an 
ominous event. Fire is not only a consuming, but a 
purifying baptism. Pain begins, what shall end their 
acquaintance ? Parram’s hand was burnt just enough to 
make it needful to go out, and apply some emollient. 
As his clerical friend saw his young friend leave the hall, 
he followed him. The wrapping of his hand in a wet 
handkerchief soon assuaged the smarting, and Parram 
first broke silence by saying, That girl shows in her 
address, so far as we heard it an unusual enlightenment 
of thought.” 

Yes,” rej^lied the clergyman, ^^but no faith.” 

“ Why should there be faith,” rejoined Parram, when 
there can be so much knowledge ? ” 


5 


The Meeting. 

What can we know inquired the clergyman. 

What can we not know ? ’’ 

We cannot know the cause of things,” was the reply. 

Is not oxygen the cause of combustion?” remarked 
young Parram. 

“But what,” asked the clergyman, “is oxygen?” 

“Granted,” replied George Parram, “that the causa 
causans cannot be finally traced, yet that speech shows 
that prominence given to science and the cultivation of 
the intellect will do two things — they will dispel the 
former fears of ignorance at the ordinary working of 
natural causes, and will emancipate the imagination of 
coming generations from the delusions of theology and 
the power of the priesthood. You must excuse my 
plainness. I respect you personally, hut not your office. ” 

The preacher was not in the least offended with the 
outspoken skepticism of his young friend, because he had 
himself once thought and felt in the same way. He 
simply inquired: “ Suppose the priesthood is put down, 
what do you set up in its place? Who were the greater 
friends to man, the well meaning priests of an untrue 
theology, or the despotic Caesars of a tyrannical state ? 
Remember that man has ever had a priest as a guide, or 
a despot or a mob, as a master — faith, tyranny, or licen- 
tiousness. The minimum of religion has ever been the 
maximum of despotism. If intellectualism be the light, 
religion is the strength of civilization. The heat of the 
sun moves matter, while the light only changes the 
position of its shadows.” 

“By the way, here we are in front of Mr. Madison’s 
mansion, where, to-morrow night, there is to be the 
2)arty of the season. Do you clergymen go to such fash- 
ionable places ? ” inquired Parram. 

“ Sometimes. I expect to attend this one, unless 
jorovidentially prevented ” 


6 Judith Carson ; or. Which was the Heiress. 

Providence ! who believes in providence ? Excuse 
me again,” said Parram, ‘^but the fact is, I am so unac- 
customed to talk with a preacher, that I may talk like a 
heathen to you, but I do not see what is the use of pray- 
ing if we are to act, or to act if we are to pray. ” 

His friend said: ‘^It is well to pray as if we could do 
nothing, and then act as if we did everything.” 

^^Well, some day,” returned Parram, ‘Het us talk 
upon the subject of Providence, for I do not believe in 
it, but ” 

Not now, of course,” interrupted the other. Wor- 
ship has no logic to the undevout. It is only from the 
top of the mountain that we can look down both sides. 
That which is incredible at twenty-five is the well-known 
at fifty;” — and so, each occupied with his own thoughts, 
turned towards his own home. It was the last of June, 
and to a meditative mind the solemn heavens wore a 
divine splendor. The new moon had not plagiarized 
half her light ; the stars, singly, or clustered in special 
companionships, or grouped in shining synods, empha- 
sized the contrasting darkness. Fields of illimitable 
space expanded over the heads of young Parram and his 
friend ; but how differently was each impressed by it all ! 
The former thought only of the drama of life below ; the 
latter only of the works of the Great World-Builder in 
the firmament above. On what lines of experience will 
the skeptic live? In what tranquility of hope will the 
believer die? Let the children of these two supplement 
the answer. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE CARPENTERS. 

The river begins in a, drop. Meredith Carpenter, 
father of an important personage in this history, soon 
after his ordination to the ministry, was called to a 
church in middle Georgia. His work here was useful 
and even ‘distinguished. His learning, eloquence and 
innocency of life soon won the confidence, appreciation 
and affection of the whole community. His marriage 
with Marian Crawford was what might have been 
expected ujdoii bringing two such cultivated, devout 
and sympathetic natures into acquaintance. She was 
remotely connected with the distinguished family of 
Crawfords, which even yet lives in its honorable descend- 
ants. Upon his marriage, the Rev. Mr. Carpenter 
acquired a large landed estate, and unfortunately a large 
number of slave people. We say unfortunately because 
he was totally unfit for the new responsibility thus 
thrown upon him. Like many other . Northern men 
who have made the unsuccessful experiment of planting 
in the South, he was unacquainted with the negro as a 
laborer, and knew not how much work was reasonably 
to be expected from him. He indulged when he should 
have been firm, and was firm where he should have 
indulged. In vain he sought to adapt himself to his 
new occupation. Though his wife did her part in look- 
ing after the clothes of the slaves, caring for the sick, 
the old, and the young, reading the Scriptures, and a 
service to them on Sundays, yet his management was 
neither natural nor remunerative; and it soon became 

7 


8 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heii'ess. 

evident that he could never make of himself a successful 
planter. The plantation did not support itself, and 
after a few years the negroes were allowed to suit them- 
selves with new masters and homes, and the land was 
sold under mortgage. 

As a rule the negroes were faithful and of good repu- 
tation, and such had no difficulty in finding the best of 
purchasers. Bad people only, bond or free, are always 
at a discount. 

When the embarrassment of Meredith Carpenter cul- 
minated, he returned to the work of the ministry, exclu- 
sively, and soon received a call to a Northern church,, 
which he thought best to accept. 

He made the most humane disposition of the slaves 
possible, arranging with creditors to let them find their 
own homes. 

He then prepared to leave a country and a people in 
whose welfare he felt the deejDest interest. The most 
painful part for Marian was the parting from the ser- 
vants with whom she had been reared, and who felt them- 
selves and the whites to be all one family. One of them. 

Aunt Kizzy ’’ or ‘‘Mammy,” as Marian called her, 
settled her lot for herself. While the other slaves were 
looking out for other masters, one day Mammy came to 
Marian, and said, “Missus, Ise gwine wid you.” 

“ But Mammy,” replied Marion, “ can you leave your 
children ? ” 

“Ain’t you and little Massa Crawford my chilluns ? 
Didn’t I miss you bof ? De black chilluns kin take keer 
of deyselves, dey kin, and ole Kizzy is gwine wid you,, 
and dat’s all. You need say no mo’. Iso gwine.” 

“Well, Mammy, I do not know how I should get 
along without you. You shall come back to see all hero 
whenever you like.” 


9 


The Carpenters. 

‘^’Nuffsaid. Ise gwine. Tell Massa.” 

Aunt Kizzy was the matron of the family. In those 
days, when a daughter married and went off with her 
husband to his home, there was usually sent with her 
some servant whom she preferred, usually her old nurse, 
who was a kind of foster-mother to her. These old 
domestics were truly a part of the family. They felt 
thoroughly identified with its fortunes, and participated 
in its joys and sorrows, just like one of its white mem- 
bers. 

Aunt Kizzy instinctively clung to' ‘‘the white folks, 
as she called them, and expressed her whole philosophy 
of the relations of race in the words, “Ise gwine wid 
you.’’ 

“ Well, Mammy,” said Marian, “if you decide to go 
with us, you shall be free, and have the highest wages 
paid at the Korth.” 

“ Don’t want big wages. Missus ! Big wages, big 
work. The poor white trash (as slaves contemptuously 
distinguish all poor white people) works hard and gits 
nuffin for it but vittals and clo’es, and not ’nuff of dem. 
We takes keer of dat which ’longs to us, and den you 
takes keer of ole Mammy, and when I dies, you’ll bury 
dese ole bones.” 

“Don’t talk in that way ! ” replied Marian, with the 
tears coming up in her eyes. “You must live a long 
time to see how we’ll all come out again. ” 

“ Dat boy, Massa Crawford, he’s my chile; he’ll bring 
all out, see’f he don’t. His old Mammy’ll see him a big 
man yit. He knows heap, he does, dat’s sartin,” and 
the old nurse’s features broke into a broad grin that had 
a heart behind it. 

Just then Crawford, a young, healthy, happy boy of 
twelve or thirteen years, came running into the room. 


10 Judith Carson ; or, Which tms the Heiress, 

and catching his old Mammy round the waist, went 
waltzing about with her, despite the old woman’s pro- 
tests and scuffles. 

’Have yousef, boy ! ’have yousef ! G-im me dat 
switch dar ! I’ll make you ’have yousef, shore I will. 
He boy’s ’side hissef.” 

His mother reproved him for his impetuousness, and 
with a smile upon his open, bright face, he said: ^^So, 
Mammy, you are going with us ? Ain’t I glad ! But, 
Mammy, those people will make you run away from us. ” 
Go ’way, boy ! He old boss don’t run away from de 
stable and de oats. Ise no fool, chile. Go ’long wid 
you ! Ise gwine, any way.” At this the young scamp 
seized the old servant, and turned her round and round, 
just escaping from her clutches as he bounded through 
the open door. 

The mother saw that Crawford and his old Mammy 
understood each other quite well, and she paid them no 
further attention, but resumed the writing which Aunt 
Kizzy had interrupted. We must now lose sight of this 
boy for years to come. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE PARTY. 

The party at Mrs. Madison’s was in honor of her 
daughter Bessie’s entrance into society, and was, accord- 
ing to her daughter’s wish, as much as possible an 
assemblage of friends. The company might enjoy them- 
selves if they would. 

There was one at this party to whom we wish most 
particularly to introduce the reader. 

Judith Carson was a splendid brunette, just entering 
her nineteenth year, with black eyes and hair, and a 
proud, assertive erectness of bearing, as if the dominant 
blood of her ancestors had been that of a race of con- 
querors. Her conversation flashed and sported like 
arrowy rays, pointed and barbed. There was a mascu- 
line vigor and boldness about her words and opinions 
that attracted even when they did not win. She drew 
upon herself the attention of George Parram. Her pos- 
itive nature gave him something new to study. 

Ah! ” said Parram to himself, as he entered the brill- 
iant parlors of Mrs. Madison, there is the valedictorian 
of the school, whom I saw on the stage last evening. I 
must know her.” 

As he paid his respects to his hostess and her fair 
daughter, who at that moment was engaged with several 
coming up, Mrs. Madison said: ‘^Mr. Parram, let me 
present you to Miss Carson.” He bowed most gallantly, 
and said, Miss Carson, you stood fire last evening most 
bravely.” 

wish to thank you, Mr. Parram,” said Judith, 
11 


12 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress, 

for your timely assistance. You were near or I might 
have lost my ” 

‘‘Dress, not your life, I trust,” quickly responded 
Parram. 

“ It will be well if I can stand fire from the big guns 
of the social batteries with no greater loss. ” 

“ I should always think of your gaining, never losing,” 
he replied. 

“ Do we not lose when we do not gain what we desire?” 
she playfully replied. 

“ Which way runs your meaning ?” he inquired. 

“Any way your fancy may point,” she answered. 
“The Sphynx is the symbol on my seal.” 

“Why the Sphynx ?” 

“Because it is stone and answers nothing.” 

“Why should you answer nothing ?” 

“ Because there is nothing to answer. What is the 
old problem, ‘ nothing from nothing leaves nothing — for 
nothing,’ ” she added, with a look of provoking mischief. 

Parram bowed politely, but brought the conversation 
back by remarking, “ Shakespeare says, ‘ One fire ceases 
with another’s burning.’ ” 

“I would not cremate you,” she said. “Let me 
extinguish the burning cinder.” 

“The rising sun may increase, but not diminish its 
own flames,” he replied. 

“A storm will hide the sun, and stop his mischief,” 
said Judith. “ Let us quarrel !” 

“But when the storm is spent, the sun is all the 
brighter to us for the contrast, and more worshiped for 
the darkness that has passed away,” was his answer. 

“ I expected to be annihilated at death, but you realize 
it to me while living,” she rejoined. 


The Party. 13 

If this be annihilation, then what is immortality 
he inquired. 

There is none,” she said. 

A woman at last with some sense,” he exclaimed. 

Write what letter you please, and I will subscribe it, 
^Ever yours.’” 

Mine ?” she echoed, with a tone that meant excla- 
mation and a look that meant inquiry. 

Ever yours ! ” he exclaimed. 

We shall see,” she said, with a smile dismissing him. 

As he gave way to others, he said to her in a low tone, 
^^The Sphynx has a heart of stone. To change is to 
break it.” She inclined her head to him as she saw 
another approach, and she banished, the^ figure of the 
shadow which the last Parthian remark had thrown 
across the disc of her soul. To change is to break it,” 
she murmured to herself. “Was this a prophecy, or 
the expression of a purpose ?!’ But recovering herself 
instantly, she said, smiling, with a nervous force of will, 
“ I am sure you know of other ways of changing hearts 
than by breaking them,” turning to the Eev. Mr. Car- 
penter, the clergyman of Mrs. Madison’s church, who 
now approached. He, having noticed the parting rep- 
artee between Judith and Parram, replied, “I can not 
take up the gauntlet thrown at the feet of another. 
Peace is more to my mind.” 

“But not, I hope,” she replied, “the j^eace of the 
dead.” 

“ But suppose you have death and no peace,” said Mr. 
Carpenter, seeking to turn the conversation in almost 
any direction for a change. 

“That is impossible!” she replied. “Death is the 
end.” 


14 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

“ Of what ?” he asked. 

Of all things/’ she replied. 

Of nothing/’ was the rejoinder. Yon dilfer from 
Longfellow, who says, 

‘ There is no death. 

‘ What seems so is transition.’ ” 

‘‘Oh! that is all poetry. We see death all around 
us every day.” 

“ So we do, renewed and continuously triumphant life, 
from the butterfly that flutters in the sunshine to the 
rose half hid in your hair, and all revealed in your face.” 

“A sermon well begun and prettily ended,” she play- 
fully said. “1 will attend your preaching, if you will 
^ time^ your sermons.” 

“Why should we ‘time’ a sermon, when the subject 
is Eternity ? ” asked the preacher. 

“ Oh 1 this conversation is becoming altogether too 
grave,” said Judith, with a laugh. “ The seriousness, 
remember, is all on your side.” 

‘ ‘ I am glad that there was none on yours, and that 
the sportive lip may not speak truly for the thoughtful 
heart,” he replied, as he bowed and retired. 

Mrs. Madison, like a lady to the manor born, was con- 
stantly moving among her guests, to see that eacli one 
was agreeably entertained, came up to introduce another 
guest. 

“ A superb girl,” Mr. Carpenter thought as he moved 
on around the room; “but, like a scimiter wreathed in 
flowers, she is dangerous, though beautiful. She has no 
heart, no womanly sensibilities. She is all head. The 
religious side of her nature has no development. Like 
moonlight on the icicles of a tomb, she has cold splen- 
dor, but no warmth, no intellect, no faith. That which 


15 ' 


The Party, 

makes us human — a heart — is dead below. A woman 
without worship, is indeed like the Sphynx she had 
chosen for her symbol (he had just heard her say to 
Parram) — a woman’s head on a heartless body.” 

Let the curtain of oblivion hide the rest of this party. 
Would it could fall on the several histories of the per- 
sons present ! 


CHAPTER lY. 

THE UNDERCUKREHT. 

The background of love is as inscrutable as the back- 
ground of the sun. Judith found the next season at 
Long Branch unusually gay and protracted. Occasional 
summer showers kept the air deliciously temperate, and 
the gardens and villa grounds, through and along which 
the driving avenues stretched and curved, fresh and 
green. The annuals that fringed the lawns and freckled 
the sward, were full of color and life. The forest trees 
rising up as a verdant wall to this seaside Eden, were 
neither parched nor dusty. The sea continued calm as 
if under a divine presence and command. And every 
change on land and sea only varied the pleasure of the 
senses. If now and then the summer lightning played 
along the proscenium of the sky, far off from the land, 
no violent storm followed, and no dead sultriness pre- 
ceded it. Its quivering field ^f pulsating light seemed 
but the sport of distant sublimity. The visitors who 
came expecting to be transient, were unable to break 
away from the spot where the season was so charming. 
The surf-bathing was irresistibly attractive. At least, 
so Judith thought. She was in the surf, as all were, at 
every good tide. Her swimming was unequaled by any. 
Even the most expert made no such ventures as she made. 
She rode the waves like a Naiad. Alone, and far off 
from the crowd of bathers, she sported by herself, ascend- 
ing the breakers, reclining upon the smooth billows, or 
walking in the quiet depths, as confident of her safety 
as if on shore. But, one day, to the hori’or of all on the 

Ae 


The Tinder current. 


17 


bluff, having ventured off by herself beyond all compan- 
ionship or assistance, caught by the undertow, she dis- 
appeared from sight. Though the sea was not rough, 
yet the point where she was last seen was so far out that 
the most skillful swimmer would not risk going to her 
assistance. Boats were launched as quickly as possible, 
and as soon as competent boatmen could be found. The 
hotels were soon informed of Judith’s awful fate, and 
the shore was at once crowded with hundreds of visitors, 
looking out' upon the treacherous element. Suddenly a 
cry ran along the gazing multitude that she. was again 
visible, dead or alive. With glasses, they saw that she 
was alive. But how help her ! Still too far out for any 
swimmer to venture to her, all could only stand and 
watch the result. Women sank upon benches and 
chairs, unable to bear the awful suspense. They knew 
not the will of the woman whom the waves sought to 
engulf, or they would have had more hope. Exceptional 
skill and strength that seem superhuman, attend upon 
great emergencies to those who know how to use them. 
But her self-assertion never failed her. She never ex- 
pected help nor doubted her own safety. When she dis- 
covered herself caught by the undertow, she at once 
yielded to its power, knowing that its force wmuld be 
soon broken, and that she would be released from its 
grasp. Of this she was confident from having observed, 
as her father had pointed out to her, that the sloping 
floor of the sea at that point was ridged with a series of 
successive sand bars parallel with the shore. From this 
she knew that the wave that rolls from the beach in an 
undertow as a special local current, is broken by the first 
shallow spot it strikes, and rolls back to the land as an 
upper current. 

Coming to the surface, as she expected, when the 


18 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

undertow reached the first sandbar, though somewhat 
out from shore and not visible to those down the beach, 
she reclined and rested on the very surface of the 
insetting waves; and they, as if proud of their ser- 
vice, swept her back again to the shore. Before boats 
could be manned and launched, she had been borne by 
a smooth wave close in upon the sand. She at once 
stood upon her feet, ran lajD the beach to escape being 
caught again, wrung out her skirts and made her w^ay 
to her bath house, amidst the cheers of enthusiastic joy 
from the multitude that had been drawn to the bluff 
and had watched her fate. Instead of contending with 
the water, she had accepted its movements and outwitted 
its power, and was again on the land, with no fatigue 
noticeable under the excitement of the circumstances. 
Although Judith, in her nature, was one apart from the 
world, generally, she was not so in society. No one 
more identified herself with the balls, parties, or excur- 
sions usual to an assemblage of well-bred or society 
people, than she. She was neither absent in manners, 
nor haughty, nor seclusive in presence. The more gen- 
eral the company, the more she shone. But in her 
nature, no star was ever more solitary among the heaven 
of stars than she in the world. Ever in society, she 
was never of it. She was brilliant among the most 
brilliant, but the motive was one within, not without. 
She exerted her power for results rather than for any 
gratification of vanity. She relied upon herself for the 
means to the ends at which she aimed. She was the 
oak, not the ivy. She felt entire independence of others, 
and indifferent to general judgment. Let us see how 
far this inner isolation was uniform. For several days 
after her accident, as we may call it, neither she nor 
any one else seemed inclined to bathe. The company 


The Undercurrent. 


19 


at the several hotels amused themselves by more driving 
than usual, more balls, and in various ways tried to 
forget what had threatened to be a horrible event to 
the summering idlers. It was at this time that George 
Parram came to the Branch. An account of Judith’s 
danger and self-rescue was still reported to new comers, 
and to none was it of more interest than to him. 
‘^That girl,” he said to himself, ^‘is ever getting into 
trouble,” and then, thinking to himself, getting out 
of it. This time she had helped herself. It flashed 
through his mind that, having saved her once, he ought 
to have been the one to save her again. He himself 
had no belief in destiny or anything beyond his own 
wish or power in the future; and when he thought of 
Judith, he recognized a fresh individuality about her 
that interested his head certainly, perhaps his heart. 
That would have been his opinion had he reflected upon 
the subject at all. But see her he did, and at once. 
When Judith received his card, his last words flashed 
back upon her memory like the faint syllables of a tele- 
phone: The sphinx has a heart of stone; to change is 

to break it.” 

These words of his had somehow affected her strangely. 
He seemed to speak oracularly, like one having prophetic 
authority. A pithy sentence, a phrase, a word, often 
becomes, to strong natures exceptionally constituted, the 
pivot of a philosophy of life. An individualized nature 
like Judith’s is yet, at times, doubtful of distant destiny. 
Such characters feel equal to what they see, but appre- 
hensive as to what they do not see. Once impressed, they 
seem unable ever afterwards to throw off its influence. 
Chilling persuasions come upon them unexpectedly, and 
control them like experienced realities. The future 
projects itself into the present by the mind’s apprehen- 


20 Judith Carson ; or. Which was the Heiress. 

sions, we know not why. J udith, but a few days before^ 
with a will and energies fearless of the dark chambers 
of the ocean, yet now, though all herself as far as she 
was conscious, met Parram, with the shadow of the 
broken heart of the sphinx resting dimly in her imagin- 
ation. Words that are said merely because there seems 
to be a place to say them, sometimes proves to be pro- 
phetic, and ever afterwards to affect our actions. 

I have hastened to congratulate you on your safety,’’ 
said Parram to Judith, as she, extending her hand, 
greeted him with a smile. 

“Thank you. The danger was too much magnified. 
This time,” she replied, “it was water, not fire.” 

“ The crown of the martyrdom of fire,” he remarked 
“would hardly seem to await you.” 

“ Is there no other mode but fire or water? ” inquired 
Judith. 

“None others are usual,” replied Parram. 

“ But my ways are unusual,” playfully replied Judith. 

“ Quite so,” observed Parram, “ and quite unusual is 
your escape. May the future — ” 

“But why look towards the future?” interrupted 
Judith. “It is veiled and silent.” This was said as 
they were moving towards the door to join others sitting 
on the veranda, enjoying the delicious breeze and the 
glorious night. “See,” she continued, “that ship now 
crossing the moonlight on the sea. It not only comes 
out of the dark past, but it is soon hid in the inscru- 
table future.” 

“ What a small patch of light upon sea there is to the 
surrounding darkness,” remarked Parram. 

“Yes,” replied Judith, “but the little light is all the 
more precious and beautiful for its dark setting.” 

“ And the smaller by contrast,” interposed Parram. 


The Undercurrent, 


21 


The painters tell us that nature is sparing of her light 
chords, and that a spot of light is mostly effective in 
large masses of dark. Rembrandt formed a school on 
this principle. ” 

^‘Is it so in life?’’ inquired Judith, as she raised her 
eyes and looked off thoughtfully upon the mysterious 
waters. 

‘'It is wiser,” replied Parram, “to act upon that 
theory, and make the most of the happiness we have. 
When the -dark comes, it will be broad enough, even if 
it be, like the cloud seen by the servant of the prophet, 
no larger than a man’s hand.” 

“Why not confine the comparison to the hand and 
not the cloud ? ” remarked Judith. 

“You are severe upon us, ” answered Parram. ‘ ‘ Why 
not say the shadow of a woman’s hand as well ? ” 

“A woman is powerless,” said Judith. 

“ But the little power she has affects most the destiny 
of man,” replied Parram. 

Without being conscious of it, Judith had become 
a little superstitious, and for a moment she remained 
silent. The evening wore on in sach conversation as 
may be imagined. They were both speculative, if not 
skeptical in mental tendencies. With both it was life 
rather than immortality — thought, more than feeling. 
But it was a fact, whether noticed or not, that Judith 
bathed no more after Parram arrived. Some women 
do not regard the unromantic appearance which the 
bathing costume gives, whether seen by strangers or 
lovers; but Judith was reluctant to be seen by Parram 
in a costume so unattractive. Though she never thought 
of him as a lover, yet something whispered to her soul 
that he might be some day, and she shuddered as she 
remembered his prediction. Young, talented if not 


1i2 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

gifted, wealthy as he was, she accepted his attentions 
rather as a study than as a matter of feeling. But what- 
ever her interest in him might be, she was too careful of 
her appearance in his presence, to be seen in the bather’s 
clinging suit. The world attributed her refusal to bathe 
to the terrible peril from which she had just escaped. 

Days passed. On the drives, in the parlor and ball- 
room, and on the promenades, Parrani and Judith met 
in the usual round of social gaieties; more frequently, 
certainly, than mere strangers meet. What was the 
bond between them ? Neither had sufficient imagination 
or warmth of nature to be really romantic. They were 
too skeptical to be tender, and each was too self -poised 
to be dependent on any other for happiness. Parram 
could not satisfactorily explain to himself his interest 
in Judith. It could not be on account of her intellect; 
for that by itself never gave man wakeful thoughts about 
woman; nor her clear, dark eye, fringed by long, silken 
lashes; nor her elastic but firm step — he knew not why 
he thought of. her. But to think of, — is that to love ? 


CHAPTEK Y. 

THE AXLE WITH OHE WHEEL. 

Marriage is not always the hour-glass in which the 
sands of opinion all gravitate into the same thin cell, 
or rather marriage is not always two wheels revolving 
around the one same axle of love. 'Not only in com- 
merce and government, but especially in formation of 
character, wealth is a potential monarch, controlling 
men who have and love it, as well as those who love, yet 
have it not. The prayer of Agur was wise: ‘^Give me 
neither poverty nor riches, lest I be full and deny Thee, 
or poor, and steal. ’’ The very poor are overcome by a 
pressing and dire distress, and the very rich are pleased 
and deluded with a present prosperity; and both are 
too absorbed in their condition to think of a God in 
this world, or have a hope in the world to come. The 
Mantuan bard suggested a horrible history in the inquiry: 

“ Q;aid non mortalia pectora cogis, 

Auri sacra fames? ” 

The passion for gold is solitary and supreme over love 
of wife, children, home, country, and God; the pursuit 
of it enlists and monopolizes every energy; the posses- 
sion of it giving ease, independence, rank, deference" 
and power ; begets arrogance to the poor as inferiors ; 
inspires respect only for the rich as equals; and enters 
into an emulation only of those still richer as superiors. 
In both directions the love of money makes the rich 
powerful and selfish in its possession, and the poor 
powerless and selfish in its pursuit. Anyway, without 
religion, it is too apt to become the curse of curses. 


24 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

It suited all around, as the world looks at things, for 
George Parram and J udith Carson to become man and 
wife. The property on both sides would by this alli- 
ance be aggregated, and wmuld make what is styled a 
distinguished marriage. Besides, there was a certain 
ambition in each to conquer the other. They both were 
bright and original, and while J udith promised herself 
a triumph in bringing the sarcastic George Parram to 
her feet, it was also a game that attracted him to subdue 
the cold, proud, sparkling girl. This play of personal 
purpose kindled just enough interest in each other to 
warrant the fancy that they were mutually in love. All 
friends helped, neither had any other serious passion, 
and so, as a very eligible arrangement, the two were 
made one. George Avas extravagant, and so was Judith; 
hence it Avas thought best to have settlements, and, in 
theory at least, the settlements were peculiar. The re- 
spective fathers Avere wary, close, rich men. Generally, 
it is only such cautious, saving men, that acquire great 
wealth. Liberal, generous dispositions are, as a rule, 
too hopeful and improvident to hoard money. The law 
of accumulation is to keep a part, however small, of 
all earnings. This long habit of mind and practice of 
holding on to money, affected in a very singular way the 
catastrophes of the two lives joined by this marriage. 
As George Parram had no established income, and was 
of a risky, speculative tendency of character, his father 
settled on him and Judith, so long as she was the wife 
or widow of his son, property that ultimately became of 
immense value. Judith’s father was too rich not to do 
something for the young couple himself; so he, following 
the example of Parram’s father, gave to George Parram, 
as husband of his daughter Judith, as long as he should 
live, and their heirs, a piece of property, which ulti- 


The Axle With One Wheel. 


25 


mafcely appreciated also to an incredible value. The 
rental from the two properties was quite sufficient for 
the liberal support of a small family, whether traveling 
or residing abroad, it having been finally agreed that 
the young couple should spend some years in Europe, 
and abroad they went. After arriving in Paris, they 
took elegant apartments, looking out upon the Champs • 
Elysees, about midway between the gardens of the 
Tuilleries and the Arc de Triomph. Here they learned 
each other’s idiosyncrasies of character as only married 
people can. Both had fortune and all the caprice inci- 
dent to indulged human nature. With such, marriage 
is an experiment, fraught with unusual perils. If poor, 
they would have gone to work; but being rich, they 
were idle and restless. There is no self-knowledge in 
the power of station or money. 

Thus, in utter ignorance of themselves, these young 
people began life in that city, where everything so enter- 
tains and beguiles that any special worry can be easily 
forgotten by those who have it. 

George Parram’s father had invested his first earn- 
ings in suburban city lots, and in the stocks of various 
corporations. The rise in the value of real estate, and 
the multiplication of shares called ‘^watering,” had 
made him, as we have said, immensely rich. Too much 
occupied with his accumulating wealth to give much 
attention to his children, and knowing nothing about 
the rearing of them, they were relegated to the care of 
his wife; and as the claims of society left her ho time 
to attend to them, they grew up indulged, willful and 
selfish, as much so as if they had been miserably poor, 
and been left to the moral training of the streets. The 
only difference between the child of the godless palace 
and that of the godless street is, that one is selfish and 


26 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

refined, the other selfish and unrefined. George and 
Judith were like so many of either class, willful and sel- 
fish, never accustomed to opposition or discipline. Each 
was surprised when resisted in the least by the other. 
Judith was fretted if George did not instantly stop his 
game of billiards when she wished to go out, and he was 
angry when she disappointed his slightest whim. The 
wish of each was his or her own law. No one before had 
so thwarted either. The brilliant woman was not the 
companionable wife, nor the talented man the consider- 
ate husband. Both natures were exacting. No one had 
ever said: Deny thyself,’’ nor could they have seen the 
necessity, if they had. Estrangements were no trifles 
between proud, undisciplined characters like theirs. 
Fretful words became angry words. Little offenses 
became great offenses. They mutually aggravated each 
other. Petty quarrels kill sentiment. Men yield only 
to men. Unless woman can be the willow, she had better 
not wed. This was exactly that which Judith could not 
be. Lovable as woman is, she must yield — it must be 
so: it is her lot. Reasonable or unreasonable, Judith 
found that any individuality of the wife that antagonizes 
the husband is chilling to his sentiments, and fatal to 
her peace. She also found that when romance is gone, 
the wife holds her supremacy only by tact. The wife 
must assimilate with the husband ; for the husband 
cannot and wfill not assimilate with the wife; certainly 
George Parram would not. The Master said: Wives 
be obedient to your husband in all things.” When she 
tries to obey, she really commands. His pleasure is her 
power. The loved Esther could triumphantly present 
herself to the king, though the act condemned her to 
death; while Vashti, through ungracious disobedience, 
lost her husband and her crown. 


The Axle With One Wheel. 


27 


In man’s executive nature, he becomes arbitrary, sel- 
fish, and despotic. If an issue comes, the wife must 
choose . between submission and separation. We shall 
soon see what choice Judith made. Marriage is com- 
panionship, not a state of war. But just this last, it 
Jiad become between George and Judith. Incompatibil- 
ity of temper, or marked self-assertiveness in both is 
ultimate divorcement. So sensitive are marriage bonds, 
that there must be sympathy, or there will be antipathy. 
It is useless to say that men ought to be otherwise than 
they are. The world is old enough to know that no 
change is to be expected, and that there must be, in the 
nature of things, a foundation for relations as they are, 
or in the progress oi the world this would have been cor- 
rected. In this divine idea, the woman is not the parallel 
of man, but a part of him, and the best part at that. 
Her individuality is absorbed in his. A man wants in 
his wife neither a rival nor a censor, but a friend and a 
sympathizer, which Parram did not find in Judith. 
When she, the wife, makes her husband her slave or 
lackey, she destroys his self-respect, and with that, his 
respect for her and all otliers. An exacting wife makes 
a resisting husband. 

Between George and Judith quarrels finally produced 
the intensest hatred, and opened the heart of each to 
any and every other passion. George, as might have 
been expected, found outside attachments. One day, 
their mutual wrangling being more aggravated than 
usual, he struck her a blow, and felled her to the floor. 
He indeed apologized, but too late. The blow was not 
forgivable, and it burned deeply in her memory, to be 
nursed into results hereafter. 

Judith’s letters home had gradually dropped all men- 
tion of him. In one of her letters to her father, she 


28 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

wrote for a sum of money surprisingly above anything 
that could be supposed to be necessary. But as her 
father was absorbed in his speculations, and as he had 
always indulged her slighest wish, the money was placed 
to her credit at her banker’s, and soon forgotten. 

It was not long before this request for funds was 
explained. 


CHAPTEK YI. 

THE SPY. 

Virtue watches itself ; vice watches others. Hermann 
Laroche was an Alsatian of Strasbourg, having, as many 
on the border do have, the mixed blood of the two neigh- 
boring nations. His mother was descended from the 
Germans, and his father was a full blooded Frenchman. 
Hermann mingled the characteristics of father and 
mother, speaking the language of both, and participating 
in all the social and political principles and sympathies 
of his class in both nationalties. His family being very 
poor, he early went into the world to make his living. 
To him, as to hundreds of thousands of others, Paris 
was the point to which, as in the circling eddy of the 
whirlpool, he was at once drawn. Being quick in 
thought, active in limb, and ready for any emergency, 
he naturally drifted into the quasi-police life of a Com- 
missionaire. This is not so much an office, as a service. 
The Commissionaire is a porter or errand boy, a doer of 
chores, or, in fact, anything for which he can get pay. 
He is sometimes employed to shadow people. A gentle- 
man Avishing to know the name of any lady whom he 
may chance to meet in the streets, gives his name and 
address to a Commissionaire, and tells him to find out 
her name and residence. These Commissionaires have 
been known to follow persons for weeks, before acom- 
plishing the object for which they were employed. They 
thus have many adventures, and work up many a plot, 
or disentangle many a maze of intrigue. Hermann 
Laroche was by nature a detective. He was alert, per- 


30 Judith Carson; or. Which was the Heiress. 

sistent, fond of excitement, unscrupulous, and with no 
small amount of enthusiasm and intelligence. Poverty 
nompelled him to be subservient. 

His instinctive and intuitive aptitude for intrigue soon 
filled all his time with commissions of that kind. He 
scorned to work, and rejoiced in a plot. To track home 
the lady to whom Monsieur bowed so delightedly, or to 
learn all about the gallant upon whom Madam smiled 
so charmingly, to penetrate the mask, to observe conn - 
tenances, to note meetings and salutations, to detect the 
secrets of individuals or groups, Avas a passion with him. 
His cases grew in importance as his skill increased. 
Sometimes he would shadow persons, and possess him- 
self of secrets simply for his own amusement. 

One day, as he was at his station in the Rue de Rivoli, 
he saw a lady of youth and beauty stop before a shop 
Avindow and stand, admiring the exquisite brilliants there 
displayed. A glance of her eye in the direction whence 
she came, suggested to the suspecting mind of Hermann 
Laroche that she was followed, and was expecting some 
gallant or a messenger to overtake her. A Commission- 
aire, younger than himself, in fact a mere boy, ran up 
to her, handed her a note, and as quickly ran away. 
The lady’s apparent rank, her expectancy of the note, 
and its secret delivery, excited Hermann’s curiosity, and 
determined him to know more about it. He according- 
ly kept in sight of the lady as she took a circuitous route 
up towards the Place Vendome, then round by the Opera 
House toAvards the Grand Hotel. 

Human cunning and well-laid schemes are quite lia- 
ble to miscarry in some particular, especially when in 
the hands of inexperienced persons. The lady, in with- 
draAving her hand from her pocket, after assuring her- 
self that the note was there, brought out the note, and 


31 


The Spy. 

dropped it on the pavement. Laroche, unobserved by 
her, instantly secured it. For a moment he hesitated 
whether it would be more to his interest to. overtake the 
lady and restore to her the note, to recover which she 
would most probably give no stinted fee, or to keep it 
for future use. He suspected that the note contained 
a precious secret, the knowledge of which might serve 
him well. People that are doing unusual things, are 
most unfortunate when they lose the key to their secret 
— an accident very apt to occur. 

Everything cannot be successfully guarded. Intrigue 
heats the mind too much for perfect caution. We lock 
the door in vain when the fire is consuming all within. 
When everybody is observing everybody, concealment is 
impossible, — especially in Paris, where the police is so 
universal. The Prefect can tell where any citizen is at 
any moment. If evasion be for a while, it is only for a 
while, as we shall soon see with respect even to Judith 
Parram. 

When Laroche saw the loser of the note turn into the 
Orand Hotel, he had the knowledge of her location and 
the possession of the note as capital in trade. The con- 
cierge of the hotel could furnish her name to him. The 
note, her name, and her hotel was a good beginning. 
Just as he was putting a mental value on these gains, 
he was not the least surprised to see the lady, with a 
look of great discomfiture, reissuing from the hotel. 
She had missed the note, and was returning to find it. 
Kecognizing his business from his blue velveteen trousers, 
blue corduroy jacket, and brass plate on his breast, 
inscribed with his order, number, and name, she called 
him and said : 

‘‘Commissionaire, I have lost a note. Find it and 
your reward shall satisfy you. Here is my card.” 


32 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

‘‘ On what street shall I hunt ? he innocenty inquired. 

She described to him her route home, and said that 
she herself was going back upon the same track, suggest- 
ing to him to go across to the Bue de Eivoli, above or 
below the Palais Koyale ( I could never tell which was 
up and down in Paris ) and meet her. 

Taking a short cut through one of the many small 
passages or arcades that are so common in European 
cities, and especially in that part of Paris, he was enabled 
to stop at the table of an Ecrivain Public, a personage 
once more common than now. It was his business to 
write cards, notes, love-letters for illiterate grisettes, 
copy manuscripts, and do any other small writings that 
less educated people might require. Laroche, by breath- 
ing on the wafer as he ran along, so softened it that 
when he came to a halt at the scrivener’s table and asked 
for paper on which to copy the note, he found no diffi- 
culty in opening it without injuring its smoothness. In 
a second the contents were his, the note rcsealecl, pressed 
hard down, and ready for delivery. He delayed his 
steps to let the paper and the sealing paste dry. To 
quicken this, he stopped at a coffee stand and dried 
them over the coals and then hastened to meet the lady, 
according to directions. He intercepted her on the Eue 
de Eivoli, not far from where she dropped the note, and 
handed it to her, with the story that it must have been 
picked up as soon as it was dropped, by another Com- 
missionaire, whom he had accidentally met, and who, 
learning that he had a commission to find it, delivered 
it to him. Of course this meant two fees, one for him- 
self and one for the other Commissionaire. What use he 
made of the contents of the note so criminally obtained, 
we shall see hereafter. He was delighted with the 
secrets of others. It even made him happy as an artist 
when others were troubled by his villainous lies. 


33 


The 8py, 

He showed such remarkable aptitute for this secret 
service, that at the age of twenty-five he had important 
continental duty assigned him by the Communists. The 
occasional jobs of the Commissionaire did not fully 
occupy his more fruitful resources as a policeman, and 
were not continuously followed. Once in the secret ser- 
vice of the Eeyolutionists, he had a field suited to his 
cunning and character. He pretended to be a Courier, 
ready to conduct tourists to and through any part of the’ 
Eastern Hemisphere. He was in Spain, Italy, Austria, 
Eussia; Prussia, and even England. Like so many of 
these guides, he picked up enough of the modern lan- 
guages to be at home in almost any country that travel- 
ers would be likely to visit. Conducting first one party 
and then another of people from all parts of England 
and America, hearing their conversations, and storing 
up the professional information of local guides as to the 
tvonders and history of the sights they exhibited, by the 
addition of some little reading, Laroche, at the age of 
twenty-eight, might well be taken for a man of some 
culture. His game for years had been the double one 
of secret policeman and secret emissary of the Inter- 
national Commune. In the execution of his plans as 
spy, he would settle down in some quiet village, mix 
with the people and learn their sentiments and temper 
as to society and their rulers. He was an eavesdropper 
in every estaminet, or beer hall, in the mountain dili- 
gence and in the railroad coach. 

When a man makes a business of spying, it is aston- 
ishing what an amount of partial personal histories and 
political plots comes into his possession ! And yet no 
one has less trustworthy information. They hear only 
parts of conversations, and they put their own version 
on that. Like conversations repeated by servants, their 


34 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress, 

information is not to be credited in the least. Since it 
is difficult sometimes for a person to repeat correctly a 
conversation that is fully heard and intended to be 
accurate, is it not almost impossible for a subordinate, 
who catches only words, without fully understanding 
the subject under discussion, to come anywhere near a 
faithful report of it ? It is safe never to listen to a ser- 
vant’s account of what he or she has overheard, or to 
believe it if constrained to listen to it. 

Laroche heard all he could, drew his own conclusions, 
and made up his own histories of the people he met. 
Sometimes he was right, generally, seriously wrong. 

There are two events of his life with which we must 
now acquaint the reader. But let us not anticipate too 
much. When he handed to the lady the lost note, he 
scanned her countenance well, but saw therein no expres- 
sion of consciousness as to the contents of the note, other 
than a slight lighting-up as if love might wave his torch 
across her features. She grasped the note firmly, almost 
crumpling it in her hand, and returned with a rapid 
stej) towards her hotel. He stood looking after her, 
with a strange purpose evolving itself amid the fiuctu- 
ating thoughts of his mind, until it finally took shape 
and reality. This note which had so accidently fallen 
into his hands, and which he had taken the liberty to 
open and read, was nothing less than a plan of elopement 
between the Countess de Martinque and George Parram. 
The names were not mentioned. It was Parram who 
had contrived, as we have seen, to get into the hands 
of the Countess the note, giving minute items of time 
and place of meeting. At ten o’clock the next night he 
would be in a carriage at the corner of the Rue St. 
Honore and Rue Pierre Lescott, where several streets 
center, one crossing the Seine at Point Neuf in the rear 


35 


The Spy. 

of the Palais de Justice, two short streets opening into 
the Boulevard de Sebastopol, and several running off 
from the terminus of St. Honore, like roots from the 
trunk of a tree. Laroche determined to take control of 
the plot, and manage it to suit his own evil ends. In 
this purpose he took into his confidence another like 
himself, an unscrupulous and desperate gambler of for- 
tune. 

When Parram drove up to the point designated in his 
unsubscribed note to the Countess, where he intended to 
dismiss his carriage and take hers, Laroche and his con- 
federate opened his carriage door as if they were expected 
to do so, and sprang in, pointing a pistol at Parram’s 
head. As they did so, they ordered the driver to turn 
into the Boulevard de Sebastopol, keeping to the left, 
and they would tell him when to stop. In the same 
instant they covered Parram’s mouth and bound him. 
Parram, at first, supposing himself arrested for his 
attempted elopement with the Countess, was silent in 
his conscious guilt. This kidnapping was done so sud- 
denly, and the occupied mind of Parram was taken so 
utterly by surprise, that before he had time to recover 
himself and call to the driver, he was powerless, and the 
carriage was rumbling on along the noisy pavements. 
He himself was guilty, and upon an unlawful enterprise 
of his own. Whether he was in the hands of the Count 
whom he was outraging, or of the police, he could not 
tell. The rapidity with which it was all accomplished, 
and his own feeling that he was himself an outlaw and 
had no right to complain, made him submit without a 
struggle or an effort to escape. An elopement, of course, 
implied a full purse. Under the pretense of searching 
his person for arms, and, as is usual with the police, of 
taking into their .custody all valuables (to be returned 


36 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

when he should be liberated), they soon pocketed his 
watch and money. The moment this was executed, the 
carriage was turned back to the point where Laroche and 
his confederate had entered it. J ust before reaching tho 
exact spot, they alighted and told the driver to go back 
to the Boulevard de Sebastopol and keep on until 
stopped. The gentleman within would tell him the 
exact house. 

This was accomplished just as the carriage of the 
Countess was seen coming at a brisk speed down the Eue 
St. Honore. Parram had been a little ahead of time, 
lest he might seem too tardy for a lover’s promptitude. 
She, though realizing that success and escape depended 
upon punctually ‘keeping the appointment, was at the 
designated place a moment late, and was not surprised 
to find the door instantly opened, and a man enter and 
take a seat by her side. Instantly another entered, and 
took the opposite seat. The carriage having been stopped 
as far as practicable from the gas lights, before she could 
discover that the man at her srde was not Parram, a pistol 
was presented to her head, and her lips sealed, accom- 
panied with the remark, We are the police ordered ta 
arrest you and return you to your husband, the Count. 
Be quiet, and you shall not be harmed.” As the second 
one entered the carriage, he ordered the driver to turn 
and go slowly up the Eue de Eivoli. 

Laroche then told her that he had known her plans 
(she did not recognize him, without his uniform, as her 
Commissionaire of the previous day), that Parram would 
not meet her as appointed, and that both were in his 
power. Knowing that such an engagement would natur- 
ally find her with all her valuables on, he ordered her to 
surrender them, and to give such further sums as he 
might from time to time name as the price of his silence. 


37 


The Spy. 

said he, ^‘you agree to this, bow your head.’’ 
This she promptly did. Furthermore, if we send you 
a note, asking alms, will you respond liberally?” She 
bowed again. 

We intend now to send you back to your hotel. 
Any noise, if you could make one, or trouble to us, only 
reveals your own affairs, which we suppose you would 
not wish to do. You were about entering upon a course 
of great wickedness, and ought to be thankful that we 
have arrested your downward career. Our good inten- 
tions are for the small compensation of your valuables, 
which we need, but you do not. We intend now to take 
our leave of you, and release you from the embarrassment 
of our presence.” 

With this, Laroche and his confederate untied her 
hands, and left her to work the plaster off her mouth as 
well as she could. Jumping out, they ordered the coach- 
man to drive to the Grand Hotel. The carriage drove 
on as directed, and they disappeared up the Rue J. J. 
Rousseau. 

The driver of Parram’s coach continued on out to the 
Boulevard de Sebastopol, until, supposing that the gen- 
tleman within had fallen asleep, he stopped and asked 
how much further he was to go. Not receiving an 
answer, he dismounted and opened the door to awaken 
his customer, when, to his surprise, he found him bound 
and muzzled. Of course he saw through the whole 
thing at once. As soon as Parram could speak, he 
ordered the driver to take him at once to his apartments, 
giving him some Napoleons (which Laroche had over- 
looked) not to mention what had happened. 

The night’s adventure had not only failed, but it had 
failed expensively. How his game had been discovered, 
he could not tell. Perhaps the Count had found out his 


38 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

appointment with the Countess, and had j^layed this 
trick upon him. 

But his funds were gone ! 

The Count certainly would not want these ! 

Anyway, the failure was mortifying, and if known, 
destructive to his reputation. 

This certainly would have been so with success ; but 
in success he would have found his ^compensation. 

Now, neither he nor the Countess could say a word. 

Whether it was a trick or a robbery, Laroche and his 
confederate were safe, and they knew it. 

The guilty could not expose the guilty. 

We can afford to leave Parram and the Countess, who 
soon after quitted Paris, to think over their failure, and 
make what explanations should be necessary, while we 
hasten on with the fortunes of Laroche. He and his 
confederate divided the spoils, and parted. The latter 
went to London, and the former, soon after, returned 
to his native Alsace. 

Criminals do not feel comfortable at the localities of 
their crimes. Though they educate themselves to all 
possible composure, and force themselves to confront 
those whom they have outraged, with the air and confi- 
dence of conscious innocence, yet, they are sure to take 
themselves away for a time, where they can see new faces, 
think of new plans, and forget the old. So Laroche 
went to Alsace. 

If the police of Paris knew, which is doubtful, of his 
coup de main upon the Countess and Parram, there was 
no prosecutor, and no reward to stimulate an arrest. So 
nothing was done, as neither Parram nor the Countess 
would venture to say a word, and as the hackman were 
too accustomed to adventure to report anything not 
required or for which they were not paid, Laroche might 


39 


The Spy. 

not only enjoy his spoils in all public confidence, but he 
had a carte Uanch to draw on either Parram or the 
Countess ad libitum for hush money. 

Blackmailing is successful in three different cases : 
The guilty as charged will pay for safety; those only par- 
tially guilty as charged will pay, dreading discussion and 
the impracticability of convincing others that their com- 
plication is modified; and the innocent, proud, sensitive, 
timid natures will pay, alarmed at a mere whisper against 
their good name. Defamation, however maliciously 
false, will find believers. People do not pause, and 
indeed* they have not the time to enquire into the truth 
or falsity of reports. A mere shadow upon character 
does some damage. Some natures, knowing this, are so 
appalled at the threat of accusation, that they will buy 
their peace at any expense. Sometimes, also, finding 
circumstances suspicious, they, in entire innocence, but 
fearful, do things to clear themselves that in fact mys- 
tify and compromise them. In the guilt of his victims, 
Laroche was safe. 

Upon returning to his native Strasbourg, Laroche 
found himself a stranger. The same old houses were 
standing, but new families were occupying them. New 
signs were on the shops, new employments occupied the 
people. His family were scattered or dead, and forgot- 
ten (for the poor have no histories). There was nothing 
to attract him but the memory of a playmate, Ina Schonte, 
® of as many bloods as her name would indicate — Italian, 
German and French. She and Hermann, as children, 
had lived in adjoining houses. Though he was several 
years her senior, they had played together at their doors, 
and had gone together to the gardens and cafes with 
their parents. But this had been many years ago, long 
enough for each to have forgotten the other. He won- 


40 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

dered if her hair was as raven black as ever, and if her 
eyes, as a woman’s, were as unsearchable as he remem- 
bered them to have been as a child’s; whether she danced 
as lightly and sang as bird-like as when he was a boy at 
home, poor, but innocent and contented. These thoughts 
came to him from his boyhood memories, and he sought 
his old home. He sat down on the old steps as when a 
child, and he and Ina clasped hands, as rose vines from 
adjoining gardens meet, and intertwine their stems and 
mingle their perfumes together as one sweetness. If he 
could have always been a boy, ignorant and unskilled in 
evil, or could have found a childhood’s grave, how for- 
tunate would have been his escape from the wickedness 
of a life ripening in a world where evil is more obtrusive 
and impressive than good. 

Had a complete catalogue of his thoughts been made 
at this time, there would have been found in the list but 
few of parents, brothers, sisters, or boy-friends. 

A scattered family, like the notes of broken harp 
strings, floating upon the wind, is remembered only as a 
childhood’s dream; it is a memory without a passion. 

And so Hermann Laroche yielded to the influence of 
the reminiscences of a love that was all the dearer, be- 
cause there was no guilt in it, and all the stronger, 
because there had been no other. 

The melancholy of love tinges the heart with religious 
tenderness. Lovers would be saints. 

For the flrst time that he could distinctly remember, 
he turned into the doors of the grand old Cathedral, with 
a wish to pray. 

For eight hundred years shadows from the columns 
and Gothic arches of the nave, lifting the lofty clere- 
story, braced by its flying buttresses, and its crocheted 
flnials of this sublime Cathedral, had fallen upon the 


41 


The 8py, 

kneeling forms of penitents. Mailed warriors, with 
human gore dried in clots upon their armour, had here 
asked for mercy on their crimes. For these hundred of 
years, the human procession had come and gone, every 
one with his own sin. These human feet were still, and 
the individual guilt of the smaller criminals was no more 
remembered by man. 

But could there be oblivion to Laroche of himself ? 
Could he recall the past — the recent past ? Could he 
make restitution and atonement ? Could religious senti- 
ment, if he had any, resist willful habits ? 

There was no conviction of wrong in Laroche — no 
contrition — no regret — no repentance — nothing but a 
tenderness wrought by a lover’s fancy, not by the con- 
science. It might bring irresolution, but not reforma- 
tion. 

There was in the Cathedral nothing but. the sermon 
of architecture for him. He was alone, and therefore 
sad. 

Where was Ina ? 

He must forget or repent. He would first find Ina, 
and then — 

At the return of her playfellow, Ina was just in the 
fullness of peasant girlhood, with black hair and brows, 
deep, clear eyes, the Southern brown in her cheek lighted 
up by the red of German blood — a healthy, cheerful girl, 
capable of work, and equal to many vicissitudes. 

It was no difficult job to Hermann, accustomed as he 
was to hunt up people, to find her. Once again together, 
their old interest in each other was easily rekindled. 

And now see upon what singular turns the moral drift 
and destiny of a life depends. 

Before seeing her, he was in love with her, out of 
childhood’s memories. After seeing her, his love became 
his religion. 


42 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

There is no knowing what she might have done with 
these better feelings of his had it not been for the jewels 
of the Countess in his possession, which gave him the 
means to bribe her affections, and to compromise her 
passion by the obligations of costly presents. Instead, 
therefore, of restoring to the Countess her property, 
Laroche confirmed his robbery by giving the diamonds 
and other ornaments to Ina, as an offering of his love. 

It is true, there had been nothing scrupulously honest 
in any period of his life, but what he had recently done 
was a full committal to a life of crime. 

At moments common to all wicked people, he wished 
he could recede. But with a pretty girl to admire his 
costly presents, the last trace of regret at what he had 
done vanished, and a shadow descended upon his path 
that rested there forever. 

The smiles of woman gratify the vanity of man, and 
intensify his passion. For the sake of the woman he 
loves, any man would prefer to live an honest life ; but 
a man of weak conscience, rather than hazard the loss 
of her favor by his inability to compliment her, would 
take the risk of a dishonest life that gives him the means. 

Woman is more assimilative than man; hence, while a 
man, naturally bad, is not materially improved by loving 
a good woman, a woman, naturally good, so to speak, is 
surely damaged or is sanctified by chastisement, in loving 
a bad man. After marriage he will not rise to her eleva- 
tion, but she will be in danger of sinking to his degrada- 
tion. The wickedness of woman is in her weakness; the 
wickedness of man is in his will. The direction of the 
married life is in the hands of the husband, not of the 
wife. His moral plane is too apt to become hers. 

Ina accepted Hermann’s costly presents, and admired 
them. He was willing to steal for such a reward. If 


43 


The Spy. 

Ina had known his title to them, and had declined to 
accept them, Hermann might possibly have become hon- 
est. As it was, in his heart, he knew himself to be a 
villain, without an idea of change. His every moral 
power became fully committed to wrong. He formally, 
definitely, and fully admits his character to himself, and 
enters upon his career as a social Ishmaelite. Ina is now, 
but will not long be, an exception in his desperate ven- 
ture of life. They married, and were as happy as two 
could be with a dark secret in the heart of one. More 
and more he was absent from home, alone with his own 
thoughts and silent. 

Not long after the marriage, Hermann went back to 
Paris, and, in course of time, when he found that he 
could make use of her, Ina followed. As commission- 
aire, he had opportunities for the play of his love of 
intrigue, that no other employment offered. It helped 
him as spy, and from it he could pass to something 
more important; at present, it would cover other opera- 
tions. 

Laroche had Parram in his power. The question with 
him was, whether it was more to his advantage to demand 
money from the husband for silence, or from the wife 
for relevation. Which was the more responsive passion, 
a husband’s fear, or a wife’s jealousy ? Upon the whole 
he thought it best to get Ina into the service of Parram, 
and through her to manage both and make his demands 
in the direction that promised the greatest remuneration. 

So he made Ina come to Paris, and seek service from 
Judith as her maid, setting forth that; she spoke French 
and German, as well as a little English, and that she was 
an accomplished hair-dresser and milliner. To make 
her more certain of the position, he created a vacancy by 
procuring another situation for the maid J udith had, to 


44 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

travel with a lady in Italy. Ina, representing herself as 
a deserted wife, offered her services at the very moment 
Judith most needed them, and of course was employed. 
She pleased her mistress so much in every way that she 
became her confidant and adviser. Thus these spies had 
both Parram and his wife completely in their power. 
Parram could at any moment be blackmailed by Laroche, 
and Judith lived upon the excitement of Ina’s news and 
sympathy; nor did either suspect that Ina and Laroche 
were husband and wife, as they were never seen together. 

As servants come generally from the lower stratum of 
society, with the prejudices of their class, and feeling 
antagonistically toward those whom they serve, their 
treachery has become a peril and a curse to society. 
They drift into a kind of organized mass of spies. Their 
danger is not because they know so much, but because 
they know so little. They hear and repeat but parts of 
conversations, and see but parts of the private lives of 
those whom they serve and malign. Families will be 
driven to do without them or to defy them. All who 
listen to their tales, strengthen their power and magnify 
their importance. The ear that listens, participates in 
the guilt of the tongue that speaks. 

Parram was without excuse for his vicious life, and 
Judith had no resources of deep-soul power to help her 
bear her injuries. 

In the meantime Ina poured oil upon the fire of their 
domestic bitterness, and what in innumerable instances 
was no sufficient cause for trouble, she made so — not 
because she and Laroche wished, or because it was to 
their interest, to separate husband and wife, but out of 
the pure gratification such people take in causing trouble 
and in making themselves necessary. It was hardly pos- 
sible for Parram and Judith to keep together in life. 


The Spy. 45’ 

even without the vileness of these spies ; absolutely im- 
possible with it. 

Laroche was so completely disguised on the night of 
the robbery, that there was not the slightest recognition 
of him by Parram when they met again. 


i 



CHAPTEK YII. 

THE FLIGHT AND THE EXCHANGE. 

As the root is to the blossom, so is evil to its punishment. 

As to result, we are ever stepping in the dark. 
Marriage, maternity, misery, are the alliterative his- 
tory of woman’s life. 

Judith was missing and so was In a. 

Whither had they gone ? 

George Parram woke up to the fact that of late theii 
quarrels had been most bitter, estranging them for days. 

During such times, he had absented himself more 
than ever, leaving his wife, for several successive days, 
either entirely alone or dependent upon Ina for com- 
panionship. 

At length this desertion became intolerable ; all mutu- 
ality of affection was gone; and she determined upon 
separation and flight. The more she reflected, the more 
she intensified her resentment at his neglect, cruelty, 
and disloyalty, and the more she resolved upon revenge. 
The separation, to become more or less absolute, was 
fully determined upon, but the concealment of it had a 
motive that entered into her whole subsequent life. It 
was this, that he should never have the custody of the 
child soon to be born. For this purpose she fled and 
hid, and continued to flee and hide, as we shall see. 

If any of her family had been by to counsel her, and 
she had been less under the influence of Ina, she might 
have acted differently ; but far away from them, alone 
with her wounded and embittered nature, she acted 
upon her own plans and acted most effectively. 

46 


The Flight and the Exchange 47 

She did not forget, in coming to her conclusion, all 
the peculiar circumstances that led to her marriage. 

George Parram was of a wealthy family, and her father 
had become so greedy in his love of money, that he 
determined she should marry him, or no one less wealthy. 
She saw that any disappointment in his expectations 
of the marriage would very much anger him, and that, 
in the loss of the financial advantages of the marriage, 
she would for a time, if not altogether, be refused any 
sympathy from him. He was generous to her, so long 
as she caught a husband whose father was as rich as he 
was. She knew too, that, in dreading a divorce and its 
financial loss, he would insist upon her living with her 
husband; and if divorced, that he might turn from her, 
leaving her to bear alone the trouble and the discredit 
of it. 

Without any reason, or against reason, she acted upon 
instinct and a loathing for her husband ; and fled any- 
where for freedom and the sanctity of her maternal claim. 

Judith and Ina disappeared from Paris — but where ? 

Fearing that he might be accused of her secret mur- 
der, George Parram put at work every possible detective 
agency to find her. 

Laroche put himself in the way of employment, and 
was employed. Though hints were occasionally dropped 
him by Ina as to their route or direction, he did not 
make a direct use of it. He would encourage Parram 
by getting occasionally upon the track of the fugitives, 
and then he would lose it. 

The wit of a wounded wife, inspired by hatred of her 
brutal husband, mortified pride, and the mysterious 
prompting of her new maternal instincts, eluded the 
most peristent search of Parram without Laroche. 

Assisted by Laroche, who was conveniently at hand. 


48 Judith Carson ; or Which teas the Heiress, 

they began, like the circling of the hound before it -finds 
the trail of the fox, to make concentric and enlarging 
circles around Paris, until at last they found a clue. 

Week after week, month after month, they were fol- 
lowing and losing, then again finding and losing Judith’s 
path. 

They had gone through many of the small districts 
of Ehenish France, gradually drifting towards the Tyrol, 
in the very direction, as it proved, Judith had gone, 
when they became certain they were about to find her. 

The two fugitives, after weeks of travel, feeling them- 
selves secure from pursuit, stopped at a hamlet on 
the mountain side near Innsbruck, named Heiligenwas- 
ser (Holy AVater), from the medicinal springs near by. 
Here (in an humble cottage kept as a sort of inn) they 
made themselves contented for the time before them. 

Ina had told Judith about her own marriage, and 
pretended that her husband had treated her cruelly and 
then deserted her. 

When Judith, confidentially, acquainted Ina with her 
determination to fiee from Parram and secure the custody 
of her child, when born, Ina informed her mistress that 
she herself expected to give birth to her child about 
the same time. It occured to Judith that this might 
prove a most fortunate coincidence. 

She had been puzzled how, if her husband overtook 
her, she could baffle him, and retain her child ; and at 
last she hit upon it. She would persuade Ina to pretend 
to have twins, if necessary, or what would be a surer 
plan, to exchange babies for a while and let Parram 
take off Ina’s child for hers. She talked it over with Ina. 

But,” said the latter, shall I let him take my babe 
away ? ” 

Of course,” replied Judith, “he will be glad enough 


49 


The Flight and the Exchange. 

for you to go with it as a nurse. You can decoy him 
away from here, to Paris, if necessary, and elude him 
when you please. We may have but little time to 
arrange all this, if he should come upon us by surprise ; 
so here is money to bring you back to me, when you 
choose to return.’’ 

‘‘If,” enquired Ina, “he asks me about my child — ” 

“ Tell him it died,” replied Judith. 

So it was agreed to by Ina, who thought it a good 
trick, with just enough of French incident in it to make 
it attractive to her. 

“ If the worst comes to the worst,” continued Judith, 
“after you have decoyed him away from me, tell h im 
plainly that the trick was mine, and that the child is 
yours.” 

As Judith talked to Ina in German, Frau Denker 
overheard and understood this conversation, and it put 
notions into her head. 

Little did J udith think that, in talking over this plan 
with Ina, she had suggested to her old hostess an act 
that might entangle the life of the child it was intended 
to protect. 

This plan of Judith interested Frau Denker more than 
any tale she had ever heard. 

The mental life of the dwellers in these hamlets, 
barnacled on the precipitous flanks of the Alps, was in 
simple incidents rather than in intelligence or morals. 
Unaccustomed to control their thoughts and imagina- 
tions, unusual and strong impulses to evil or mysterious 
action met in them but feeble resistance. All persons, 
especially those of the unenlightened class, are easily 
affected, sometimes epidemically, by whims or freaks, 
as is seen in popular superstitions, personal declusions, 
riots or illogical and irregular outbreaks of mobs. Mind 


50 Judith Carson; or. Which was the Heiress, 

infects mind ; suggestions become plans ; mystery is 
oftentimes its only motive. Extravagant action pro- 
vokes imitation. 

E’ot many weeks after this, Ina gave birth to a 
daughter. This so excited Judith, who wished the 
children to be born, as it were, at the same time, that 
she also, on the same day, gave birth to a daughter. 

Frau Harman of the village, who served at such 
times, was with both mothers, and continued as nurse 
as long as they staid in the village. 

So it was that as Frau Denker saw Frau Harman 
dressing the new-born infants of J udith and Ina, born 
as it were, in the same hour, her thoughts ran on into 
the probable future of the two children. Remembering 
Judith’s plan to exchange the children, if overtaken, 
she was seized with the irresistible inclination to 
exchange the children herself, giving lua’s child to 
Judith and Judith’s to Ina. It was a thing.to be known 
only to herself, their mothers being too ill at the time 
to know aught about it. The more she thought about 
it, the more fascinating the idea became. 

If she had attempted to account for the mischievous 
disposition that beset her, she could have settled upon 
no one motive. She wished that she had never heard of 
Judith’s plans; for, not understanding her injuries or 
her strong maternal instincts, she thought it wicked for 
a wife to put upon her husband any such wrong, and 
give to a stranger’s blood the wealth that belonged to 
another. Slie saw that it was perfectly practicable to 
make the exchange herself, so that if the husband did 
find his wife and she made the exchange of which she 
had spoken, as she supposed, in confidence with Ina, 
the husband would really get his own child. 

Thus the matter worked in the mind of Frau Denker. 


51 


The Flight and the Exchange. 

To make the exchange at a venture, had the interest of 
romance in it, and looked somewhat like a duty. 

Are not the practicability of crime and its successful 
concealment oftentimes the greatest temptation to com- 
mit it? 

The fear of detection and punishment are wholesome 
restraints of , wrong, if operative before the mind is 
resolved. 

How near insanity are our evil thoughts. So suddenly 
do wicked aims come upon men, is there not present 
some malignant spirit, not their own, to lead them on? 

How do we account for that irresistible impulse that 
sometimes takes control of men to lead or mislead them 
ever afterwards? 

Under its power or influence, they seem regenerated 
or degenerated into new beings. They surprise the 
vorld by the efficiency of power, good or evil, never 
before suspected. 

The motive of special actions is not always traceable 
by reflection, and seems not unfrequently to come from 
some influence without rather than within. 

Frau Denker, persuading herself that it was her 
duty to prevent a wrong by anticipating the ex- 
change of the children, which she understood to be 
intended by Judith, if overtaken, took the flrst oppor- 
tunity and made the exchange herself. Afterwards 
she enjoyed seeing each mother press the other’s child 
to her breast as if it were her own. 

Does nature tell the whole truth 

Would a blind mother instinctively know her own 
child? 

One day, when these children were about eight or ten 
weeks old, Frau Denker, who kept the Inn, came home 
from the village not more than a quarter of a mile 


52 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress, 

distant below, and told Judith that two travelers had 
stopped to let their horses blow, and that they certainly 
were enquiring about them, and that she was sure they 
would soon be there. 

Judith saw from the description that it was her hus- 
band who was coming, and that she was at once to con- 
front him. As she looked out of the window, she saw 
him and a guide coming directly to her door. 

Quick, Ina, quick, give me your child, and run with 
mine to Frau Harman ! ” 

Ina had scarcely more than passed out with what was 
supposed to be Judith’s child, than there was a rap at 
the door, and a simultaneous entrance of Parram and 
his guide. 

^‘Well, Madam,” said Parram, after a long and 
difficult search, we have found you.” 

What is it you wish, now that you have found me?” 
said Judith. 

My first reason for finding you was to prove to the 
world that I had not murdered you; my second, to 
secure my child — both are now accomplished.” 

In the meantime, Ina’s child had been lustily drawing 
its dinner from the breast of Judith, with as quieting a 
satisfaction as if indeed from the breast of its own 
mother. 

'‘'And sir, I suppose,” said Judith, "you intend to 
take from me this child! ” 

" I certainly shall,” angrily replied G-eorge, " if I can 
find a nurse to keep it alive apart from its mother.” 

"Suppose I will not let you!” defiantly replied 
Judith. "You know me, George Parram, and you 
know that I am no weakling to be scared by your 
threats. You take this child at the risk of its life.” 

"And you too. Madam, know that I am not to be 


53 


The Flight and the Exchange. 

trifled with. Now that I have found you alive, and 
cannot possibly be charged with your murder, I have no 
further interest in you; but I shall take that child with 
me, let the consequences be what they may. I hear that 
your father is on the continent; you can communicate 
with him through your banker. However unpleasant 
it may be, this courier will keep you and the child 
under surveillance until I can determine best how to. 
take it with me. Be sure of one thing, it goes with^ 
me.” 

‘‘ S.uppose,” Judith said, with her eye strangely fierce, 

dash its brains out?” 

‘‘I know you too well for that. It was to keep this 
child from me, that you have given us this chase. To 
revenge yourself on me, you would delight to slay it; 
but the instincts of the mother are my sureties that you 
will do the child no harm.” 

But, George Parram, you do not wish the child. 
What interest can you take in an infant whose mother 
you so hate.” 

Perhaps that is among my reasons for wishing to 
take it. If I do not want it, you do. My blood is in it, 
and therefore I take it. ” 

Enough ! I see the result. If there is anything 
stronger than my love for my child, it is my hatred for 
its father. Take it ! Its possession would constantly 
remind me of your base perfidy, your cowardly blows, 
and your blood-hound pursuit of me. I loathe you with 
every energy of my soul; and, but that a mother’s love 
leaves me somewhat natural, I would loathe the living 
form in which courses your base blood. As much as I 
love that child, I will not follow it if I have to be near 
you. Take it away while I am strong in my hatred of 
its father. Here is the nurse,” pointing to Ina, who 


54 Judith Carso7i ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

had come in, that has supplied it with the nourish- 
ment I could not sufficiently give.’’ 

^^So you are here too,” said Parram, with surprise. 

This man, Ina, will take my child from my arms. 
Go with it, if he asks you, and take care of it.” 

‘ ^ Have you nursed this child ?” asked Parram. 

“ I have, since my own died,” answered Ina. 

Will you go with it, until, at least, I can make other 
arrangements — say to London, it may he to America.” 

When do you leave?” said Ina. 

By the morning’s diligence. Wages are nothing. 
Will you go?” 

I will,” faltered Ina. 

Then take the child, and come to me at the Inn in 
the village below. Stay,” said he, turning to the courier 
who had guided the search, ^^keep near the child, and 
see that it be not stolen. Keep nurse and child both in 
sight and see that by no trick they can escape.” 

Turning to where Judith had been sitting, he found 
that she had her back turned to him, and was gazing at 
the child in the arms of Ina, now hushing it to sleep. 
And thus they parted. Both were under the stimulus 
of intense passions, and he certainly blind to a thousand 
and one incidents that might have attracted the notice 
and excited the suspicion of a cooler brain. He ac- 
cepted, as an explanation of Judith’s supposed despe- 
rate composure at the ravishment of the child from her 
arms, that she surrendered it because it was his, and 
because she hated him as a wife more than she loved 
the child as a mother; and both passions, separatelv or 
united, had dominion over her strong nature. 

He did not understand her nature, though she per- 
fectly understood his. They were mutually hateful 
to each other. Their marriage had been based largely 


55 


The Flight and the Exchange. 

upon the consideration of money, rather than upon any 
supreme preference for each other, and it had wrecked 
the lives of both, if not that of their child. 

It may be asked, if these mothers could possibly be 
ignorant as to whose child each one had. 

Certainly neither Judith nor Ina, in their weak con- 
dition, knew which child she fed from her maternal 
bounty. Whatever exchange or exchanges had been 
made, were made when the children were a few hours 
or days old. 

Both mothers having for months been traveling under 
intense excitement, were at first exceedingly prostrated, 
and, though not dangerously ill, had to be kept as quiet 
as possible. They suspected no marplot and watched no 
one. Judith, at least, did not know upon what freaks 
and low impulses the human mind can act. 

If Frau Denker only had exchanged the children 
before, the arrival of Parram, the exchange of Judith 
gave Parram his own child. And must it be, after all 
the sacrifices Judith had made to keep her child, that 
she was to be duped! 

is evil always to be its own punishment ? 

There was one or two old friends of Frau Harman, 
who, if you could have got them into a gossiping mood, 
would have whispered to you in the strictest confidence, 
lest they might hurt the feelings of Frau Denker, that 
Frau Harman, the old nurse, having more familiarity 
with the children than either the mothers or Frau 
Denker, might, perhaps, tell another story as to whose 
child George Parram actually did take away with him. 

After awhile the parties left. Frau Harman moved 
with her son to America, and the few who knew any- 
thing of the matter, forgot it. 


CHAPTEK YIIL 

THE DIVOECE. 

Wedded life divorced is like a river cleft by an island 
of rocks, taking two channels, wide apart, each with its 
own lights and shadows, to the infinite sea. 

Ina had unexpectedly become a party to a plot, the 
end of which she could not see when she entered intO' 
it. It soon, however, entered her Italian mind, inter- 
ested in intrigue, that there might be more for her and 
her child in the outcome of the game than was at first 
evident. George Parram supposed that he had his own 
child. The deception put upon him by his wife was at 
first a surprise to Ina, and with which she had nothing 
to do; and as long as he was undeceived, she had, at 
least, a home for herself and child. She heard that he 
was rich. Her child had been put forward as his child 
— his heir. She was safe. If anything threatened to* 
dismiss her from her place as nurse ( for her child ), she 
could at any time reveal the secret and retain the child. 
Until such a danger impended, she determined to keep 
her own counsel and be governed by the course of events. 
She inwardly enjoyed the ready desire and skill of Judith 
in keeping her own child. If Parram had been duped, 
the two mothers controlled the situation. It is aston- 
ishing how passion, a little helped by circumstance, can 
mislead. 

Judith’s strong will, coupled with what we know of 
her, had determined the time and accomplished the 
success, of her flight. She did not pause to reason on 
the probability of discovery, upon the pursuit most cer- 

56 


The Divorce. 


57 


tainly to be made by her husband. She liad but one 
idea in her mind, as we have seen, and that was, upon 
any divorce, so likely to follow and so much desired by 
both parties, the possession by her of her child. We 
see how things turned out. She thinks that she has 
her child and Parram is sure that he has it. Ina has no 
doubt that she has hePs. 

And now, as has been suggested, Ina’s brain is at work 
to make the most of her fortune. Parram noticed her 
interest in the child. You seem to love it very much,’’ 
he said to her one day as she was most demonstrative to 
it. ^^Yes,” she replied, ^*^10 looking at it I cease to 
think of the little grave I left behind.” ‘^Ah! ” thought 
Parram, her child’s death, though her loss, is my gain. 
The transfer of her affections to this child secures me a 
foster-mother.” With this reasoning, he gave no further 
thought to another nurse, and made all possible speed 
back to London. There he at once took passage for JSTew 
York, leaving behind him, for Judith’s father, who had 
come to Europe in search of his daughter, a letter giving 
a history of all that had taken place — that he had the 
child and nurse with him, and would refer all to the 
courts — that he would find his daughter at a village in 
the suburbs of Innsbruck — that he presumed she had 
funds, as she had drawn all her ample means from her 
banker before she left Paris. The reader would scarcely 
be interested in all the expressed and implied justifica- 
tions contained in this letter of Parram’s. He wrote 
cautiously, as he feared anything he might say would 
become important as evidence in the suit for divorce, 
which, of course, would be at once instituted by him if 
not by her. 

What of Judith and her father? 

Deception begets fear. Suppose her husband should 


58 Judith Carson; or, .Which was the Heiress. 

discover, in a day or two, whose child he had ! Was she 
yet safe ? 

Her device had saved her so far, but was it beyond 
change ? She did not know of the new thoughts and 
schemes that wandered through the brain of Ina. The 
interest of the Italian-Prussian in her child made her, 
by the side of George Parram, a weaver of webs from 
which he could not escape. It was to the interest of Ina 
to keep up the secret that had been so successful. But 
Judith did not think of this. She did not see that she 
had unintentionally done that which tended to make the 
blood of an entire stranger heir in place of her child. 
This was nothing. Women feel first and think after- 
wards; but they generally stand by their acts, whether 
they proceed from the head or the heart. Judith had 
not come to the reflecting point. She had but one object 
before her, and that was to hold the custody of her child. 

If the thought of money ever crossed her mind, it was 
gone on the instant; as she knew that there was money 
somewhere for her and her child. Her father had it for 
her, if her husband did not. But at this moment did 
she, or he, have her child ? So far, she seemed success- 
ful. Still there was the probability of his discovery of 
her device, and his immediate return. In her fear, this 
was like a coiled rattlesnake at her feet, ready to spring 
upon her. 

Thus, her anxiety was renewed, and she again began 
to plan a certain and undiscoverable retreat. Where 
could she go? Must she not see her father? When her 
funds had given out how was she to live? These ques- 
tions finally presented themselves in rapid succession, 
and with more or less confusion of solution. 

As for money, with what she had and what she could 
procure from the sale of her jewels, which were the most 


The Divorce. 


59 


•costly, she could keep afloat for twelve months, if not 
longer. 

To communicate with her father, who would perhaps 
condemn her entire course and endeavor to reconcile her 
to her husband, was to discover her new whereabouts to 
her husband and to lose her child, if perchance he had 
found out the deception practiced upon him. 

Instead of flying to her father for protection and 
guidance, as almost any other woman would have done 
under similar circumstances, she attempted to reason, 
and to carry out her own plans. This was her mistake 
from the first; and it entailed a long train of difflcuities, 
and some most important consequences. She could have 
trusted her father more than she thought. 

The trouble, however, had come, and it must be met 
in some way. Her father saw that it would not do to 
let his daughter wander through the world, homeless 
and destitute. He must find her and take her home. 
This, with her false reasoning and cunning mode of act- 
ing, was not an easy task. To find her was the first 
thing. 

After getting George Parram’s letter, he proceeded at 
once over the Alps to Innsbruck, and searched all the 
villages round about, but in vain. She was gone. He 
heard of a young woman with a baby leaving in the 
direction of Botzen; but that could not be Judith, he 
thought, for her husband wrote that he had the child. 

Wherever Judith was, she must be alone; this woman 
with the child must be some other. So he turned across 
into Switzerland, and went to Geneva and the Lakes, 
gradually turning his search towards Turin. 

In going hither and thither as suggestions would be 
made by one and another, he had consumed many 
months. He frequently wrote to her husband, though 


60 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

he received no replies, except a notice through his banker 
of the commencement of proceedings, by Parram, for a 
divorce. 

George Parram, on reaching home, promptly applied 
for his divorce, fearing from Judith’s father exactly what 
Judith had feared from him, the effort to secure the 
custody of the child. At that time infidelity was tho 
only ground upon which marriage contracts, or rather 
the marriage relation, could be dissolved. In order, 
therefore, to get the divorce on the plea of desertion by 
the wife, George Parram procured the passage of an act 
of the legislature authorizing divorce upon that ground; 
the validity of which law, as to previous marriages, may. 
hereafter be questioned. The law was soon afterwards 
repealed. 

If he could get the divorce while Judith was so mani- 
festly a deserter, the court could not hesitate to decree 
the custody of the child, already in his care, perpetually 
to him. For these reasons the divorce was urged, serv- 
ice of process duly made by publication, -which neither 
Judith nor her father ever saw, and the court, in very 
short time, granted the prayer of the husband’s bill; and 
decreed a divorce a vinculo between this ill-fated pair, 
granting also to the husband the perpetual custody of 
the child begotten in said marriage and then in his care. 

This was done with all the dispatch for which the 
American courts are so notorious. 

It is approximately true that five to eight per cent, of 
marriages result in divorces. Two-thirds of these are- 
sought by wives, showing either that two husbands to 
one wife offend, or that two wives to one husband wish 
no mate or other mates. 

Sometimes, in some states, decrees of divorce have 
been re-opened by bills of review or by reversal of a 


The Divorce. 


61 


supreme court, possibly to find one or both parties 
re-married, it may be, several times. 

In one instance, an insane wife returned to sanity, and 
found that she had been divorced; that her husband had 
re-married and died. The divorce was afterwards prac- 
tically annulled as to children, property and reputation. 

In the case of Parram, money had hurried througli 
the proceedings at race-horse, but not unusual, speed. 

One day, when Judith dropped in at her banker’s, in 
the old city of Prague, to get some of her diamonds to 
sell, she read, in looking over an American paper, the full 
text of the decree of divorce between herself and her 
husband, giving, as she had dreaded, the child to him. 

From this she plainly saw that sequestration of her- 
self and child was now more than ever a fixed necessity. 
The decree would take from her her child in case it was 
discovered that Parram had been duped. She had, con- 
sequently, to fear, not only a husband’s power, but also 
that of a decree of court. With a certified copy of that 
record, as a basis of proceeding, her child could be taken 
from her by any official in any kingdom of Europe. 

By the first false step of flight she had given a terri- 
ble advantage to her husband in any legal contest. The 
victory was already his, if her artifices were ever found 
out. No less than the concealment of years was now 
before her. Her husband would not seek to find her as 
long as he remained deceived. His ignorance was in- 
deed her bliss. 

Still another difficulty presented itself. 

If he knew of her whereabouts and the fact that she 
had a child with her, it would put him upon the eager 
enquiry as to whose child it was, and might suggest to 
him the possibility of an imposition on the jiart of the 
nurse, as well as on the part of his wife. 


62 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

It seemed to her that either she must not he lieard of 
at all, or not in connection with any child. In other 
words, so far as the world was concerned, she was not 
supposed to have a child. Therefore, she must either 
he unknown herself, or her child must he unknown. 
She determined to try both or either as need might he. 

Another perplexing anxiety arose. The husband of 
Ina must seek to find his wife and child. Would he not 
expose to Parram the trick that the two women had 
played upon him? In him she had another foe to dread; 
but impelled by the double-headed passion of maternal 
love and hatred to Parram, she lived an alert life, ever 
ready to clutch her child and flee. 

The persistence on the part of Judith to live abroad, 
together with overwhelming shrinkage in values of Mr. 
Carson’s property, accompanied by losses in all direc- 
tions in spite of his miserable caution, so wore upon his 
spirits, that he sank into intense mental depression and 
suddenly died; no one being willing to say whether by 
disease or intention. His estate was found to be deeply 
embarrassed, if not hopelessly insolvent. 

This change in fortune threw Judith upon her own 
resources. She had been a student of art, and looked 
to her aptness in that to support herself and child. 


CHAPTEE IX. 

THE BANKRUPT. 

When tlie worm feeds at the root, the leaf withers at 
the stem. 

The reader must know that George Parram, after 
marrying Judith Carson, gave up the profession of the 
law, and had some nominal connection with the different 
stock corporations in which his father had invested large 
sums. After what took place between his wife and him- 
self in Paris, his pursuit of her and the recovery of his 
child, and, above all, the proof to the world that he had • 
not murdered her, he plunged into business, as we have 
seen, speculated in stocks, making and losing, as all do 
who risk all upon the desperate uncertainties of that 
kind of gambling. In one of these ventures a reverse 
came, and, in a day, every dollar was gone. But no one 
knew it. He seemed reckless of fortune in the desper- 
ate chances he took. He sold the property Judith’s 
father had given her in marriage, and converted it all 
into mining stocks. Gambling was his passion and life. 
After his father’s death he treated the settlement he 
had made on Judith as ended by the divorce, and sold 
it as heir to his father. Cool, calm, and persistent, he 
determined no one should know of his failure, and new 
ventures should replace all that was lost. He moved 
cautiously, yet with a desperation, to but one end, and 
that was — the reader will see. His great ability and 
popular address enabled him to get large interests into 
his hands and management. His dexterity in the man- 
ipulation of stocks was remarkable, and at times the 

63 


64 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

sagacity of liis combinations was supreme. Venture 
after venture brought fortune back to him. Thousands 
and hundreds of thousands flowed to him like steel 
atoms to the magnet. He was rich again — rich l^eyond 
the seeming possibility of recurring poverty. And now 
money was fully and finally his god. All else — child, 
absent and divorced wife, life, death, God — all were as 
nothing to the absorbing passion for money. Think of 
this as the state of a man’s mind for years — for life. A 
pall was over the moral side of his nature, and hid it as 
if he had none. Money was his mania, and ever it was 
more, more, more. And it came. Hundreds of thous- 
ands brought millions, and millions doubled themselves. 
Power increased power. The delirium of prosperity be- 
gan to bewilder his judgment, and make him defiant of 
vicissitude, and blindly confident of his genius and 
success. 

Nine hundred and ninety and nine successful men so 
extend their operations and multiply their liabilities 
that surprise and mistakes overwhelm them with ulti- 
mate disaster. There is an unfixed quantity of luck, 
chance, providence, uncertainty, that no man can antici- 
pate. He maybe cautious one year and quite incautious 
the next. Success puts him to sleep. Many men make, 
but few retain. Shrewd men are constantly watching 
and over-reaching, or combining against one another. 
The kings of money are more often deposed than the 
kings of state. 

Two men cannot stand together on the apex of the 
same cone. George Parram was no exception. The 
pendulum of fortune began to swing back. He was 
living in extreme extravagance. With a house in the 
country and no knowing how many in town, with enter- 
tainments that might rival those of Lucullus, and 


65 


The Banhrupt. 

stables of liorses more numerous than those of an empe- 
ror's; fairy grounds, extended parks, private race- 
courses for speeding his horses, company according to 
his fancy — in short, with his vast means he led a life 
entirely at will, with no self-control, and a scanty respect 
for public opinion; and he led it with such prodigality 
of indulgence that fortune seemed for him to have no 
reverse. But in this world there is ever at work the law 
of equilibrium. The pendulum, as we have said, begins 
to swing back, and the momentum of its descending 
curve is in the ratio of the square of the distance it falls. 
He found this law of Newton’s as applicable to specula- 
tion as to physics. Confidence had made him presump- 
tuous, and his millions disappeared like the bright things 
in an opium dream. 

And now returned upon him his former struggle for 
financial existence. His investments were not remuner- 
ative nor rapidly available. He lost the management of 
his mind. Everything seemed adverse. Whichever way 
he bought stocks he lost. If he speculated in town lots, 
they declined on his hands. When he expanded his oper- 
ations, values shrunk ; if he sold at ruinous losses, values 
appreciated. There was an inscrutable Nemesis. Fate, 
or something else, was against him. Nor had he such 
a moral vigor of will, such an overwhelming devotion 
to principle, as would make it possible for him to go 
through his ordeal unscathed. If he had, when and 
how had it been cultivated ? His whole life had been 
selfish. The possession of money had with him, from 
boyhood, been all that he thought man needed. He 
always had had money, and it never had entered his 
mind that he possibly could live without it. He must 
have it. The means were indifferent — the end was all. 
This was the key to his whole life. The unscrupulous 


66 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress, 

grasping after it drove him to Europe again, and to 
Florence, as we shall see, and it drove him on, shall we 
say, to the end. 

How is it that intellectual culture does not prevent 
crime ? It is evidently powerless for want of any sanc- 
tions of the conscience. What will prevent crime ? 
Deep religiousness of life, and nothing else. But do 
not church members steal ? and what is the difference 
between an educated thief and a church-going thief ? 
The difference is, the one steals ivith much education, 
the other steals without any religion. With the former 
education is a reality, with the latter religion is a sham. 

The divorce having been decreed, the custody of the 
child awarded to him, and Ina fairly established as nurse, 
Parram gave no further attention to his child. His spite 
had been satisfied ; and, as every time he did see the 
child, it reminded him of its mother, he saw as little of 
it as possible. Indeed, what with his extensive specula- 
tions and club life, he was but little at home. There 
was nothing there but the child to attract him to it ; and 
as he saw that Ina took such watchful care of it, he was 
sure he could do no more. 

It was under the pretense to negotiate the sale of some 
bonds of one of his companies, that, after the lapse of 
sixteen years from the time he parted from Judith^ near 
Innsbruck, he again returned to Europe. 


CHAPTER X. 

ART. 

Art patterns are from God. When speaking of Judith’s 
maternal instincts, we saw them concentrated on plans 
to retain the custody of her child, and we saw how the 
device to mislead her husband, to which she resorted, 
turned out, but now she must come to some understand- 
ing with.Aer father, and have some plan for her main- 
tenance ; and her place of residence must be agreed upon. 
So she wrote to him, before his death, that she had no 
motive to return to America — that her life had received 
its sorrow, and that her familiarity with and fondness for 
European life had led her to the determination to live 
there the rest of her days, or at least until her child was 
grown, and could for herself choose her for her guardian. 
She therefore wished her father to give her letters of 
credit to two or three bankers, to whom she could send 
for funds ; but she saw reasons for remaining absolutely 
hid ; and she impressed him with the great certainty that 
George Parram would claim her child under the decree 
of the court to spite her, if for no other reason, if he knew 
where she was, and learned that the child he had was not 
his. She gave him to understand that her husband was 
deceived as to the child in his possession, and to keep 
him so, she must remain not only abroad, but hid. This 
she was persuaded she could effectually accomplish, but 
that he must not disclose the name of her bankers, and 
must indeed instruct them not to seek to penetrate the 
mystery that might accompany her movements. She 
gave her father assurance that if there was any serious 


68 Judith Carson ; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

occasion for her to let him know her whereabouts, she 
would certainly inform him. Her father yielded to her 
plan as a temporary arrangement, hoping to so settle 
her domestic affairs as to get her back home. But the 
reader must see how Judith had entangled her life by 
the secret devices to which she had resorted in order to 
keep her child, and who can see how she is to change it ? 
It would seem, as we have said, that, until the child is 
old enough to choose its own guardian, she must live 
securely hid. 

Ho plans are perfectly realized. In less than two years 
Judith’s father not only died, but it was reported that 
he died bankrupt. For a while, regular remittances were 
made from his executors, and then they failed, and she 
was told to expect no more. She was an only child, and 
her mother died when she was in early childhood ; so 
that when her father also died leaving no estate, Judith 
determined, as said before, to live abroad and, if possible, 
support herself and child, by copying pictures, etc. She 
soon found this more remunerative than she could have 
expected. They occupied and supported her. It caused 
her to move to different points of interest in Europe, and 
so compelled her to put her child, at an earlier age than 
usual, under the care of others. When in England, she 
had her in those school which the church everywhere 
builds up — family schools among Protestants and con- 
vent schools among the Eoman Catholics of the conti- 
nent. For the child, this was most fortunate, as she had 
in this training the chance to exterminate or suppress 
the unsanctified tendency inherited from both parents. 

Fortunate for the future of Judith’s child, and she a 
girl, that circumstances put her under more regenera- 
tive influences than either her mother or father by educa- 
tion and character could possibly have given. 


Art. 




Matters went on in this way for years. Judith changed 
her residence as inclination or the seasons drifted her. 
In the summer she sought some quiet spot in Germany ; 
her preference being for suburban localities near Munich 
or Dresden, where she could study the glorious treasures 
of art in their galleries ; and in the winter, though with 
an occasional yisit to Rome, she lingered longer at Elor- 
ence than any other place. Each city of Europe has 
some specialty of art, or is the home of some notable 
school ; as Venice for the works of Titian, Tintoretto 
and Yernese ; Madrid for Murillo ; Rome for Raphael ; 
Bologna* for the Carracci ; Parma for Correggio, and 
Munich for Rubens. 

At Florence it was her delight to go into the Tribune 
of the Ufizzi, where the Venus stands peerless amidst all 
the matchless works constellated in that treasure-room 
of art. There is the Apollo Belvidere, Raphael’s St. 
John and the Fornarina, Titian’s two Ve.nuses, the Fawn, 
and L’Arrotino. In this room are specimen works of 
nearly every great artist. Veronese has a Holy Family 
and two others; Annibal Carracci has a Bacchante, Spag- 
noletto has a St. Jerome; Guercino a Sibyl; Fra Bartol- 
omeo two fine paintings of the Prophets, Isaiah and Job; 
Del Sarto has a Madonna, considered one of the finest 
pictures in Florence; Duer has the Magi; Perugino, a 
St. Sebastian, and Correggio the Virgin and Child. 

Each artist takes a different type of woman for his 
ideal. It is said that the women of Michael Angelo are 
the sex; Raphael paints his mistresses or his mother; 
Correggio dreams of the beauties of the Seraglio; Titian’s 
women are the plump, fair, Venetian race; Parmegiano 
paints coquettes; Annibale Carracci tried to make up 
ideals by imitating special beauties in different models; 
Guido painted actresses; Domenichino painted ideal 


70 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

faces with an expression between pure helpless virginity 
and painted ecstacy; the veiled eyes of Guercino’s women 
dart insidious fires. 

It was the custom of Judith to pass much of her time 
in these wonderful museums of art; most of the time 
copying some notable picture. One day she was before 
the Venus in the Tribune, studying the subtle perfec- 
tions of form of this perfect marble; and as her position 
was opposite and facing the door leading in from the 
main corridor, which, as we have seen, ran around the 
gallery, she saw two gentlemen, evidently Americans, 
lingering about the entrance door, but not near enough 
to recognize them. They were examining the busts of 
the Caesars. She grew pale with surprise when she at 
length recognized one of these gentlemen as George 
Parram. If they saw her, somewhat covered by the 
Venus, they could not have recognized her. Their 
leisurely examinations and pausings gave her the moment 
she needed to pass into the room of the Italian School 
of Painting adjoining the Tribune. Had she gone into 
the room of the Tuscan school on the left of the door 
entering the Tribune, she might have gone from that 
room into the Hall of the Ancient Masters; but if fol- 
lowed into these rooms there was no way of escape, save 
by passing back into the corridor through the Tribune; 
so instead of taking that fatal direction she moved quietly 
on into the rooms of the Italian, Dutch, Flemish and 
French schools, and there, at the room of gems on the 
angle, was a door opening into the end corridor as a cov- 
ered gallery, to the other side of the street, to the other 
hall. 

At the end of this corridor was a door opening into the 
long narrow gallery built as an upper story to the ancient 
bridge {Ponte Vecchio) which crosses the Arno, and con- 


Arf. 


71 


nects with the galleries of the Pitti Palace on the east 
side of the river, thus making practically the Ufizzi and 
the Pitti one glorious museum of art. This bridge, like 
the Kialto, is a street of shops. The studio of Beneven- 
uto Cellini was on this bridge. Judith knew that if she 
kept on round the corridors and art rooms to the ex- 
treme end, she would only then be driven into a corner, 
and must take the uncomfortable chances of passing her 
husband unrecognized. And though this might possibly 
have been done, yet it was a painful chance she, in her 
fright, determined if possible to avoid. She did not 
know that he was at that time in Europe, and though 
years had made changes in both since they had been face 
to face, and recently greater in him than in her, and 
though she hoped that her veil might completely disguise 
her if confront him she must, yet she dreaded, lest the 
nervous excitement of passing him, though disguised, 
might attract his attention and betray her to him. 
There was too much in her mind — too many heartaches 
— too much to be feared in the future, for her to pass 
him without something so unusual in her manner as to 
paralyze her steps. Eousing herself and moving on from 
room to room, and along the corridors as quickly as she 
could, and with all the naturalness she could command, 
imagine her joy, when she came to the door leading to 
the gallery across the bridge, though this was not one of 
the days when the passageway was open to the public, 
to find the custodian unlocking it for his own egress. 
Though her steps had been as rapid as she could make 
them, so as not to appear to be fleeing, yet the two, 
before whom she was retreating, began to increase their 
steps, taking a hasty view of the gallery, and had almost 
kept up with her, and were just emerging from the 
rooms of the schools we have mentioned, into the end 


72 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

corridor. Hastily approaching the janitor, she said: 

Signor, allow me to pass over to the Pitti with yon ?” 
‘‘This, Signora,” he politely replied, “is not the day 
for the public to use this passageway.” “ True, Signor, 
but,” putting some francs into his hand, “ I have a 
reason, quick, unlock the door.” So the janitor, moved 
by her urgency and the generous fee she placed in his 
hands, opened and instantly re-locked the door to obvi- 
ate the importunities of other applicants. 

The door was between Judith and the man whom of 
all others she hated to meet. Her escape was such an 
entire relief, so great had been her previous excitement, 
her usual will-power failed her, and she sank down upon 
the floor, and burst into a flood of hysterical tears. 

“ Is Signora unwell ?” inquired the janitor. “ Shall 
I go for assistance ?” 

“No, no,” quickly replied Judith. “ It was a tem- 
porary weakness. I am better now. Your hand for a 
moment to help me up, and I shall need nothing more.” 

The janitor, like all these Italians, was accustomed to 
intrigues, surprises, and meetings of people in the gal- 
leries, and although he had seen two gentlemen when he 
so surprisingly to himself allowed J udith to pass through 
the door which he was opening for his own convenience, 
yet he did not press any inquiries, but silently walked 
with her until the river had been crossed, and she gained 
the vestibule door of the Pitti. She asked him to call a 
carrozza, and dropping in his hand a franc or two more, 
she drove away — safe. But now what ? George Parram 
was in the same city with herself. If he should chance 
to find her out, might he not learn something of the 
child ? 

After casting the situation over in her mind with all 
the lightning rapidity of a woman’s thoughts, the con- 


73 


Art. 

elusion was instantly reached that there must be certain 
seclusion or instant departure. But could she depart 
without exposing herself to possible discovery? Would 
not any motion or sound, like that which sometimes 
precipitates the avalanche, be her ruin? Beaching her 
rooms she sat down at her window that overlooked the 
Arno from the east, and quieted herself to consider what 
was demanded of her by the events of the day. But 
few travelers ever took rooms on her side of the river, as 
the hotels and the principal pensions were on the other, 
and slie could^ from her window, with an ordinary opera 
glass, see all the promenading on the Lungarno, across 
the river. At this season it was gay with throngs of 
tourists lounging up and down the walled embankment 
of this beautiful stream. Late in the afternoon the 
Casino is frequented by hundreds on foot, in carriages 
and on horse. Up and down, passing and repassing 
each other, would these gay and happy idlers move, ac- 
quaintances mutually recognizing and bowing, the beau 
saluting the belle, and all as happy as wealth and leisure 
could make them. The river in its course through the 
city bends itself in a well-marked, but most graceful 
curve; and when, at night, the gas lights on either bank 
were repeated in mimetic reflection on the gliding river 
below, it seemed to symbolize her life, wandering be- 
tween lights of hope that only drop their image upon 
the current that flows on into the distant darkness veil- 
ing the eternal shore. 

After she had gained her room she sat down at her 
open window to recover her thoughts and consider her 
course of action. As she was thus occupied in mind, 
occasionally raising her glasses to mark more distinctly 
some passing object on the river or street beyond it, 
imagine her surprise to find pausing directly opposite to 


74 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

and in front of her, on the other side of the river, the 
very man again from whom she so narrowly escaped 
that day. Others were with him, but neither of these 
gentlemen had glasses with them, and so she could ob- 
serve them safe from their discovery. There he was, 
the man who had so shadowed her life — there he 
Avas, free to Avander as he pleased, and she, like a dove 
sheltering its young from the haAvk, had for years been 
an exile from country and home. He seemed to be, as 
she herself felt, older by some years. How different he 
was from what she had known him. Life wdth both had 
passed from the experiences of impulse to the thought- 
ful habits and engagements of care-worn souls. What 
a rush and range of thought! And now her danger 
rose again before her in all its former nearness. 

Should she flee, or hide where she was, or brave his 
power? If he discovered her, Avould it not put him 
upon inquiry, and might he not also discover the decep- 
tion which had been practiced upon him, and might he 
not out of revenge tear their child from her, by some 
way known to the law, but unknown, to her? He had a 
decree of a court assigning the custody of that child to 
him, and she did not doubt that he would attempt most 
summarily to enforce it if he knew all. If she had 
known the law, she would have known that the child 
Avas old enough to chose her own guardian. She had 
committed her life to a deception, though out of a 
hatred to him, and under the pardonable promptings of 
maternal instincts, and she saw no other way than to 
keep it up to the end. Concealment had been and must 
be her life. Now she was ever the subject of a horrible 
fear — the loss of her child. No, she would not remain. 
He, her demon, was in Florence, and she must go else- 
where; but in what place could she be more unknown. 


■ ArL 


75 


If she went to Koine, he might come there. If she went 
to Paris, would he not be sure to come there? And so 
entirely had she given herself up to one idea, and so 
persistently had she acted under one fear, that she 
feared the soundness of her own reasoning as to what 
was best for her to do. To flee had become an instinct. 
Her peril was in her own mind. George Parram had no 
idea, nor had inquired as to what had become of his 
wife when they were divorced by law and the child was 
in his custody and power. In seeking the possession of 
the child, who but He who searcheth the heart shall say 
how much of revenge there might be mingled in his 
heart with paternal instinct! He certainly did not know 
that she was in Florence; and how unconscious he was, 
that as he was looking up to the serrated profile of the 
mountains, and down into the pellucid depths of the 
ever-flowing river, that eyes were fixed upon him which 
he had not looked into for years, and a stream was roll- 
ing deep between those who once stood on the same 
bank, and might have seen their two images as one 
picture. Now one looked East and the other looked 
West, and the Arno had a different face imaged on either 
bank, and murmured its divorcing barrier between. 
But she had the same dread that she had at the first, 
and she could only feel free and safe when distance and 
mountains were between them, and across his path. 
Paris was larger, and therefore safer; and the child was 
in Paris, where she had placed her while she returned 
to Florence to copy a picture which had been ordered 
by a traveler. 

Like a bird that hobbles away from its young to mis- 
lead an enemy, heretofore it had been her plan to live near, 
but never immediately with her child, unless so certainly 
disguised as to defy recognition. Added to this appar- 


76 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

ent necessity to leave Florence was the fact that though 
she had constant communication with her child, the 
Prussian siege had cut them off for so long a time that, 
being now repelled from Florence, she was attracted to 
Paris. ISTow that he was in Europe, she drew near in- 
stinctively to the child. Her mind was made up at 
once, and she would close her bank account and steal 
away. Once in another city, she would feel that the 
sword no longer hung over her head. 

The next day was a high day of the Carnival, and 
though the streets were crowded she ventured out. She 
veiled herself as closely as possible, and ventured out in 
a carozza, to complete her arrangements for immediate 
departure. 


CHAPTEE XI. 

THE CARHIVAL. 

Merry-making is contagious. Did you, reader, ever 
participate in a carnival? If you have, you will remem- 
ber the delight it was when everybody suspended some- 
what of the conventionalities of common life, and, for 
the instant, had an innocent, childish frolic. 

By general consent and custom, as we observed in 
Florence, everybody, men, women and children, make 
themselves young again, and haj^py in sheer nonsense. 

For four weeks before Ash Wednesday, in countries 
where carnivals are observed, they begin to have merry- 
makings, excursions, masquerades, balls, shows, and 
everything that can amuse the people. One great fea- 
ture, in Florence, is what is popularly called the Corso, 
Every Sunday afternoon, and once during the week, 
for the four weeks preceeding Lent, there is a grand 
procession of people in carriages, which moves up and 
down certain streets; and in this procession are harle- 
quins, citizens, masquers, titled people in their state car- 
riages, and, at the capitol, the King in his royal style, 
ladies — it is indeed free to all, and almost every wheeled 
vehicle of the city is sure, before Mardi Gras, or Shrove 
Tuesday, to contribute to the length and variety of this 
turn-out. ✓ 

On the afternoon of the Corso, business is suspended, 
and all but the sick are on the streets; colored cushions 
are in every window, the poor and rich meet in one 
promiscuous mass, and all classes resolve themselves into 
one democratic family of fun-makers. 

77 


78 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

Who, that has had the opportunity, has not thrown 
confetti ? 

Most every carriage has a large supply of this ammu- 
nition, and every one is at liberty to pepper any other 
one. The war between windows and carriages is some- 
times quite vigorous, but all in the best possible humor. 
The King, of course, is an exception, and generally he 
is showered with flowers, or loaded down with bouquets. 

Sometimes the procession gets blockaded, and comes 
to a stand still; then those in carriages are at the mercy 
of those in windows, and confetti is vigorously thrown. 

This confetti war is perfectly contagious, and every- 
body gets into it. Our windows in Florence were open 
on the Via Gihellma, along which the procession regu- 
larly moved. On the side opposite to our hotel was a 
young Italian girl, seemingly alone, with eager eyes look- 
ing out for friends as they passed, and never failing to 
give them a warm recognition. It was proposed to attract 
her attention by directing our Are across the street. 

No one was ever more surprised, but she instantly 
accepted battle, and young gentlemen friends soon com- 
ing to her assistance, the conflict across the narrow street 
became most animated on both sides. 

New and larger supplies of confetti were provided, and 
the battle waged with all sorts of funny phases, until 
ammunition gave out or something new in the street 
attracted the attention of the combatants, then with 
mutual courtesies, the forces withdrew. 

These Corsos are sometimes attended by accidents. 
The streets are narrow, and partly selected on that 
account, so that, while being wide enough for carriages 
to pass, they shall not be too wide to prevent the throw- 
ing of confetti and flowers into carriages, or to prevent 
those in carriages from reaching the windows on either 
side. 


The Carnival. 


79 


Those on foot are oftentimes wedged in by others on 
foot, and by the blockade of vehicles. 

On the morning of Mardi Gras {le dernier jour du car- 
naval), J ndith had received her account from her banker, 
with the request that she would come to the bank a mo- 
ment, to give her signature in person. 

So occupied had she been in preparing for her depart- 
ure, and with the world of absenting thoughts which 
crowded through her mind, that she forgot that it was 
the last day of the carnival, and that the streets would 
be unusually thronged. 

Taking a carroza, she drove at once to the bankers, on 
the east side of the Arno, concluded her business, and 
was hastening to regain the west side of the river, where, 
out of the throng, she might, with or without her glasses, 
see the whole grand, final procession, as it moved down 
one square on the Arno before ifc turned into the heart 
of the city. The last day is always the grandest. All 
interest and humorous liberty culminates on that day and 
night. 

The King in his royal equipage, the officials and all 
the nobility in their splendid carriages, which are only 
seen on extraordinary occasions, with their postilions and 
outriders, take a part. 

And so, Judith found that before she could turn her 
course towards her own door, this immense procession, 
with its vast concourse of people on foot, had absolutely 
engirdled her in its coils, and escape was impossible. 

The driver drove to different parts of it, hoping to 
find a break, so as to cross it, but so dense was the mass 
of people packed, that it was impossible to stir. 

So veiling herself as far as seemed becoming, and try- 
ing to avoid attracting attention by anything unusually 
sombre, she sat in her carriage, as the splendid, mottled 
and gay procession moved by. 


80 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress, 

Upon the occasion of one of the many blockades of 
this day, an accident occurred, that we must notice. A 
horse in one of the barouches, became restless under the 
stinging shower of confetti and other usual missiles; and 
rearing in his fretfulness struck a gentleman standing 
near in the crowd with his foot, and knocked him sense- 
less to the ground. 

He was instantly picked up, the procession moving 
on, and was borne away immediately, breathing but 
insensible, along by the side of Judith’s carriage. He 
was horribly bruised and covered with blood, but most 
horrible of all, she saw that the victim was no other than 
George Parram. 

She was appalled. She could not pass on or recede. 
To cry out was only what all did, and her especial horror 
was unnoticed. 

He had become separated from his courier, and all 
whom he knew or had met in traveling, and of all that 
suffocating multitude, she was the only person who knew 
aught of him. 

The common instinct of a woman’s nature impelled 
her to descend from the carriage and direct the care of 
him. 

“Who is he, and where shall we take him ?” those 
asked in Italian, who were bearing him. 

Judith replied, “to the steps of the Duomo.” 

This was the Cathedral, and just out of the compacted 
mass of humanity in which the accident occurred. 

Her own carriage followed her as soon as the pressure 
gave way, and the driver could venture to move his 
horse. 

She did not prescribe to herself the exact point or line 
of reserve she should maintain for one second. The past 
separation seemed all obliterated. 


The Carnival, 


81 


He was, perhaps, a dying man — once her husband — ^ 
the father of her child, in a strange land, and bleeding 
and senseless. 

The hoof of the horse had torn the skin from the back 
of his head for several inches, laying bare the bone, and 
either the fall or the repeated blow of the hoof had 
inflicted a ghastly wound on the cheek. 

Mandate a chiamare un medico. Aqua I Presto!^’ 
^^Eun for the doctor. Water, quick !” 

Drawing the wound together the best she could, and 
bandaging them with her handkerchief, she washed his 
face and bathed his head, while she waited the arrival of 
the doctor. 

In the meantime, the Sacristan had opened the. door 
of his own private room, and George Parram was laid 
upon his bed. 

It]was in this Sacristy that Laurence de Medicis took 
refuge from the Pazzy conspiracy. 

By this wounded man’s side was Judith, still endeav- 
oring to sustain his life by bathing his head and forcing 
a little wine between his lips, when the doctor came, 
sewed up the wounds, untied the handkerchief, and 
directed leeches to be applied to his temple. 

He left him for a few hours, promising to return 
before midnight, but positively forbade his removal, as 
likely to congest the brain and produce convulsions. 
Water application to the wounds was all that could be 
done for them. 

The doctor came to the conclusion that there had been 
a serious fracture of the skull, with an extensive concus- 
sion of the brain, and that the result was most doubtful. 

What was Judith to do ? 

Where was his hotel ? 

With whom was he traveling ? 


82 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

To whose care could he be committed ? 

Many were the questions of this kind she asked her- 
self, utterly perplexed as to her duty. 

The law had said that she was no longer his wife, nor 
did she wish to be; but her place as nurse by his sick bed 
was far more embarrassing than would have been that of 
an entire stranger. 

She determined to do all that humanity could require, 
and retire before he might be well enough to recognize 
her. So she sat by his bedside as a sister, or even wife 
might have done, applied water to the wounds, kept the 
wet cloths to the head, and did all that was required of 
a most careful nurse. 

The Sacristan was of a kindly nature. His natural 
sympathy being occasionally helped by dropping into his 
hands a number of francs, Judith was able to procure 
attendance and comforts. The priests too, were not 
wanting in kindness. 

As prayer hours were frequent in the chapel, there 
was always some one near to advise, or at least to give 
the sense of protection. 

Judith had entirely forgotten all ideas of concealment 
in the new duties of humanity thus thrown upon her; 
and as the only one from whom she concealed herself 
was senseless under her care, she was free from fear of 
discovery, and was more herself than she had been for 
years. 

George Parram had ever been before her mind as a 
pursuing enemy; he had a legal right to take from her 
her child, for whose custody she had made, every sacrifice; 
and this man, armed with this tremendous power, was 
ever in her mind, as the one terror of her life. 

While she did not indeed wish him dead, for she knew 
that he was in no wise prepared for that, yet, his death, 


The Carnival. 


83 


in fact, would have taken at least one shadow from olf 
her life; and here she was most faithfully struggling for 
his existence, as if upon its preservation all her happi- 
ness depended. For the hour he was powerless, and 
therefore she need not fear him. 

We are very willing to feel that danger is in abeyance. 

Judith felt simply free from the fear of her husband’s 
pursuit. While he was sick, she was safe; and though, 
somehow, she felt his recovery would renew her living 
dread, jet, her human, womanly sympathies went out 
to his perilous condition, as if her danger had passed 
forever. 

Sympathy is unselfish, and she thought only of his 
present suffering, not of her future possible trouble. 
She, for the time, was out of danger, and he, for the 
time, was in danger. 

It was true, that every beat of a more healthful pulse, 
was the increasing knell of her hopes; yet she had no 
thought of herself or him, beyond the moment, and went 
on, night and day, watching over him as his tremulous 
fate required. For many long weary nights did that 
careworn watcher sit beside that pale, mindless sufferer; 
he once was her husband and she once was his wife, and 
both were linked by the mingled blood of a child who 
knew but one parent, though both were living — a worse 
than orphan, whom divorce, worse than death, had 
bereaved. 

Judith’s countenance had grown into a fixed and 
smileless thoughtfulness, like stereotyped resolution, 
with an apprehensiveness of expression, as if dreading 
some threatened trouble. 

She was still beautiful. The only change that George 
Parram, had he been conscious, would probably have 
noticed in her features and bearing, was a change of 



84 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress, 

expression from the free, confident, self-assertiveness of 
a spoiled girl, to the expression of a life self-guarded 
and conscious of its own secret. 

This constant dwelling on one great trouble, and living 
under one constant apprehension, gave an abstraction to 
her manner and conversation, a certain sad fearfulness 
that appealed to the heart and imagination, exciting the 
desire to lift the veil and know more of the secret in the 
depths of the life-current flowing beneath in continued 
unrest. 

Among the priests of the Cathedral who took an inter- 
est in the patient thus unexi^ectedly sheltered within 
their sacred precincts, was one wdiom we will call Fra 
Abby, a middle-aged man of warm, kindly disposition, 
taking unexacting views of life, and hopeful views of 
death. There was in him a broad power of helpful sym- 
pathy, which made him an active friend. 

As the prayer hours of the Cathedral were several 
during the day, and even in the night, from which he 
was never absent, he soon made Judith feel that a friend 
was always near to assist and guard her. 

It was during the season of Lent, and the whole college 
of priests were under the strictest discipline of penance 
and good works, and Fra Abbey, as a Lenten service, 
made the care of Parram his own. Leaving her patient 
in his hands, Judith often stole into the grand church, 
to think, and feel, and — pray. She knew no one, and 
no one Pnew her. The only being from whom she had 
fled, or from whose recognition she had shrunk, was 
now her care and solicitude. His life *was a solemn 
uncertainty, and she lingered around the vast aisles and 
beneath the frescoed saints and angels that floated in 
the aerial dome, rising upward in sublime depths, and 
lifting her soul from earth and man to Cod and heaven- 


The Carnival. 


85 


and slie seemed to lose the past and its fears, and the 
present and its shadows, in the hopes of final compensa- 
tions, and in the opening glories of those purified by 
suffering. 

If the exterior of this Cathedral was an architectural 
beauty, it was the interior, like the shell, that held the 
pearls of art. 

All around told of the human failure and the divine 
redemption. The sin of man disappeared in the suffer- 
ings of the 'Saviour. Everything kindled the imagina- 
tion and touched the heart. 

Judith paused before a duplicate, or copy, of M. 
Angelo’s Pieta, behind the high altar. The Madonna 
is holding across her lap the dead form of her Divine 
Son. All the mother is in her face. 

However wonderful her son had been, yet she was 
crushed by the fact, that, after all, he was dead. 
Christ was tranquil and at perfect repose. There was 
no divinity in that limp form — no son’s soul in it — 
it neither looked nor spoke to the mother. The body 
and her heart were both desolate and dead. Imbuing 
the cold but expressive marble with all the sorrow left 
on its strong features, Judith dropped on her knees 
before this sculptured image of a bereaved mother, and 
burst into tears of a living mother’s sacred sympathy. 

Poor Judith ! She had no religion outside of that 
born in the maternal heart. One thing after another 
extends and enlarges those experiences of the soul by 
which we grow Godward. 

Spiritual life has its epochs, and its eras. Manifold 
purification is the fruit of manifold sufferings. 

Judith was upon the threshold of a new spiritual era. 
She had had disappointment, peril and new duty. For 
the hour, at least, her special dread was still ; and out 


86 Judith Carson; or^ Which was the Heiress. 

of the tenderest impulses of her spirtnal being, with 
the man who had most embittered her life, like an 
unconscious infant, he appealed to her for care and help. 
With new thoughts and new yisions of hope expressed 
above and around her by reviving art in chapel, niche, 
and dome, she was led out of herself as never before, 
and upward to a home of rest, and a host of crowned 
sulferers, once like her, sighing and weeping on earth. 

Each peculiar trial brings its own peculiar grace, and 
no other. Her first, as we have said, was a disappoint- 
ment in marriage — to woman the greatest — which only 
left her heart chilled by a shadow, where she had expec- 
ted to be warmed by the sunshine. Her second was a 
peril to her child, but she took from it only a cunning 
to evade, not a power to defy, nor a humility to submit. 
Her third was a duty, and in its path she found a wider 
light to guide and a diviner strength to sustain. 

Nor was Era Abby blind to the deep Miserere into 
which her soul had been plunged, and from which she 
had before passed, stern and defiant, without comfort or 
peace. All that he could draw from her, however, was an 
admission that the wounded man — their patient — had 
once been her husband, and was now divorced. Her 
lips were closed to all else. The concealment of years 
had made her habitually cautious and self-contained. 

Explanations are awkward things. 

She listened with pleasure as he exalted the objects of 
life, and pointed her to the new powers and hopes pos- 
sible to man. When he spoke, as he once ventured to 
do, of the sacredness of marriage and the sin of divorce, 
she was silent, as the divorce was neither sought nor 
desired by her. 

She was not yet prepared to be guided by his holy 
counsel. Besides, what could she do ? She had no other 


The Carnival. 


87 

love than that for her child, and this must guide her to 
the end. 

The past was irrevocable to both. 

A present duty was all her interest in George Parram, 
— that discharged, and they were again apart. 

It was not for her to correct, or change what she had 
not occasioned. 

Her flight from a marriage that had become intoler- 
able, was an impulse of maternity, not a crime as a wife. 

He had taken his course, and as long as she had her 
child, she was content. 

But when Fra Abby or the Sacristan took her place 
by the side of the still unconscious husband, she would 
steal into some one of the many still and heavenly chapels 
behind the grand altar or cloistered parts of the transept; 
and, yielding to the influence that dropped upon her 
from pictured walls or matchless marble, she felt drawn 
to the holy life of saints, and was melted by the divine 
love of the Saviour. She was neither stung by reproof 
nor silenced by rebuke. She could think, and feel, and 
pray — at least of a sort of wafting of distress. She was 
learning religion for the first time, and her feet groped 
and stumbled on the dark mountains of experience and 
conjecture. She had neither moral wisdom nor moral 
courage, with the exception of the one overmastering 
instinct of maternity ; which, without the guidance of 
moral right, had made a moral tangle of all her later 
life. She had nothing of worth, and this instinct she 
had only in common with the animals below her. 

With no religion at home, she had come into society 
only as a refined animal. She had no worship. She had 
wealth and intellect, but no soul. Her husband was 
like her. They were both worldly, selfish and morally 
uninformed. 


/ 


88 Judith Carson; or, Which ims the Heiress. 

Wealth had made them essentially willful. With them 
money was monarch. They respected no one who was 
without it. They were just as selfish as are the very poor. 

There is nothing more hateful, or which human nature 
resents, and upon which it revenges itself sooner, upon 
opportunity, than purse-pride. It puts mere sordid 
wealth above moral worth and personal refinement ; and 
ever since the agrarian laws of Rome, and the Jubilee 
year of the Jews, it has been the red flag to madden the 
bull of popular frenzy. 

When Fra Abby alluded to religious ideas, which he 
supposed, of course, she entertained, he was astounded 
to find her mind more destitute of them than the mind 
of a fetish worshiping heathen. 

With those trained by the church, religion is a support 
in trouble; with her it was a discovery. She had to learn 
in the school of affliction that her own way was neither 
best nor possible ; that death was to be prepared for as 
well as life, and that mere wealth could not coerce hap- 
piness out of circumstances. 

But here, in the sacred precincts of this solemn Cathe- 
dral, with its crypts, chapels and cloisters, new thoughts 
came to her; a holy calm gave her command of herself, 
and opened her heart to new emotions. 

One day, as she and Fra Abby were in a conversation 
that drifted naturally upon religion, they heard, in the 
distance, round angles and through massive doors, thick 
as medieval carpentry could make them, the monks’ low 
chant in one of the chapel choirs, and he said: 

‘^My daughter, out of worship comes wisdom. Hear 
these voices lifting up hearts for strength and their minds 
for light. There is no piety without praise, no praise 
without prayer.” 

‘‘Holy Brother, I cannot answer you,” said Judith. 


The Carnival. 


89 


There is something so peaceful here, that you may 
well think there is no peace without prayer. But is 
there peace with prayer ? ’’ 

“We are told, my daughter, to ^ask and we shall 
receive.’ For what do you pray ? ” 

Instantly, like the sensitive plant, when her thoughts 
turned to her child, for whom only she prayed, she drew 
within herself, and said : “ I do not pi>y for peace. I 
fear that I nmst be wrong in this whole matter. I am 
an utter stranger to religion as a life.” 

“ And of course a stranger in character,” replied Fra 
Abby. “ The rose perishes without light, and the body 
dies without food. You cannot know that which you 
have never tried. You cannot see because there is no 
light in your eyes, and you cannot walk because there is 
no strength in your limbs.” 

“What shall I do?” she inquired. 

“ Indeed, my daughter, the mournful thought arises, 
what have you done in the past and what have you left 
undone ? Like the erection of a new temple, not only 
the walls of the old are to be pulled down, but the very 
foundations for the new are to be relaid. You must 
become a new person — new ends of life, new feelings, 
new desires, new life itself. You have lived for selfish 
ends — you must learn that if persons will let you have 
your own way, circumstances will not. You have fol- 
lowed your own will ; hut you must accept God’s will as 
your law. In other words, you must be' more gentle, 
unselfish, humble, and devout before God.” 

“ Your words are cold and hard to me,” said Judith. 
“ These faces that look down upon me in my darkness 
from their vaulted places, and the sorrow of sympathy 
that speaks to my heart from under the crown of thorns, 
move me more. Once it was not so ! ” 


90 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

‘^Eeligion must be more than a sentiment,” replied 
Fra Abby. 

Let me get sentiment first. Consider my weakness 
and blindness, and let me feel before I reason,” she half 
sighed in return. 

Or rather feel because you reason,” remarked Fra 
Abby. 

You are not Fra Abby to-day,” she replied, ‘‘but 
the transmigrated spirit of Aristotle. Let me commune 
with these pictured saints for awhile,” and she turned 
to Arretind^s Virgin and child, and wondered if her 
faith too came through her child. Maternity was shad- 
owed by aversion and fear of her husband, the pivotal 
point, as we have seen of Judith’s later years. 

Do children bring religion with them ? To mothers 
they do, if they are not mere animals. Children make 
us helpless, and then we pray. 

Judith would have made her altar before the Virgin 
and Child, if anywhere. Her religion must be through 
maternity, not theology. She should have read religious 
biography, not religious dogma. 

J ust then there was heard from the chapel choir the 
low chanting of a hymn which we wish we could render 
into English for the interest of the reader. As the last 
note died away in the shadowy niches, arches and aisles, 
the soul of Judith was moved as never before, and she 
burst into tears. The two walked on in silence. 


CHAPTEK XII. 

THE COHVALESCEHT. 

As the sick rise from their beds they should kneel at 
the altar. As God withdraws His hand of affliction from 
them, they should lift up their hands of praise to Him. 

It was understood that as soon 'as George Parram 
showed unmistakable evidence of returning conscious- 
ness, Judith was to know it if such consciousness 
returned during her absence. The doctor and the sacris- 
tan were most likely to hail .with joy the new life of 
their patient, and to communicate it at once to Judith. 
When watching, she herself would be the judge ; and no 
one could watch for it more intensely than she ; for it 
was her determination to leave him entirely to the care 
of others before he could clearly recognize her. She did 
not wish him to know that she had been near, or cared 
for him. She had not given her name to the sacristan, 
and had enjoined Fra Abby to keep what had occurred 
as entirely a secret from George Parram as practicable. 
This morning, while thus lingering before one picture 
and then another, and stealing in abstract meditation 
through the chapel and along the dim aisles, the sacristan 
came with a quick and joyous step to say that Signor 
had awaked, and was conscious. The announcement 
startled Judith as if she had been told an enemy had 
arrived. George Parram was again a conscious and intel- 
ligent being, and in consciousness was again her enemy. 
She returned to his bedside no more, but sought Fra 
Abby and told him that the patient was himself again, 
and could now make known his wants, and have around 

91 


92 Judith Carson ; or. Which teas the Heiress. 

him friends he desired ; that her duty now ceased, and 
she should depart that day. 

“Whither do you go, daughter ?” inquired the good 
man. 

“Ask not, nor seek to learn. Should he inquire, it 
is better that you know not.’’ After some further con- 
versation about business matters connected with the past 
care of her husband, she took an affectionate leave of 
Fra Abby, and that: night disappeared from the city. 
The sacristan was not a moment too soon in notifying 
Judith of the favorable change in the condition of their 
patient. George Parram awoke on this morning from an 
undisturbed and vitalizing sleep, and nature had tri- 
umphed. The congestion on the brain had been entire- 
ly absorbed or dissipated, and reason was again on its 
throne — the physical instrument was again in tune, and. 
the great intellectual concord might go on once more. 
The first question he asked was, as to where he was. 
When he was told all — ■ how that he had been beaten to 
the ground by the foot of a frantic horse in the Corso — 
that he had been recognized by some American lady as 
they were carrying him from the throng — that she had 
bound up his wounds — that she had directed those bear- 
ing him to withdraw to the steps of the Guomo as tho 
nearest place out of the throng then blockading the 
streets — that she had procured for him a bed in the 
sacristy, where he was then lying — that she had pro- 
cured medical aid and a nurse — that she had watched, 
by his side most constantly night and day. He found, 
himself quite weak from the loss of blood and the wast- 
ing of fever, and from tlie sleep of disease, and could 
take in the whole history of what had happened no more 
at that moment. Fra Abby, coming in, congratulated 
the patient on his improved condition, and cautioned 


The Convalescent, 


93 


him not to concern himself at present about anything ; 
but simply to make the most of renewed strength, with 
all thankfulness for his escape. Usually in subjects 
constitutionally strong, when nature begins to throw of 
disease, she bounds into health and strength ; but in 
the case of Parram, the injury had been too serious to 
admit of a rapid recovery to his former full vigor of 
health ; and his physician enjoined the utmost quietness 
and care until nature had complete victory. 

Fra Abby went to the hotel, directed by Parram, and 
ordered such clothes and hand luggage to be brought to 
the sacristy as Parram needed at the moment. His land- 
lady visited him once, by permission of the physician, 
and conversed with him for a moment. From her he 
learned that his friends at the Pension had lost sight of 
him on the last day of the Corso, and had concluded, as 
tourists are very sudden and erratic in their movements, 
that he had gone off for a few days to see the conclusion 
of the Carnivale in some other city near. They came to 
this conclusion the more readily, as they heard of no 
murder of any stranger, and as he had spoken of run- 
ning over to Bologna with a friend to see Carracci’s fres- 
coes and pictures so numerous there, and what novelties 
the Bolognes give to the great festa, or had gone to Parma 
to see the frescoes of Correggio. His absence was left to 
explain itself, and those who casually had met and known 
him, soon separated, each going his own way. His per- 
sonal effects were good for his bill at his hotel, so the 
matter was almost forgotten, not doubting that all would 
be explained in due time. As days of convalescence flew 
by, he learned more and more of His accident, and what 
had transpired since. But who was the American lady 
who had taken such care of him, and where was she ? 
Why did she not come to see him ? All he could learn 


94 Judith Carson ; or, Which ivas the Heiress. 

from the sacristan or Fra Abby was, that on the day of 
his renewed consciousness she had left the city. Whith- 
er she had gone or whether she would return, no one 
knew. The sacristan did not know her name, and Fra 
Abby ever turned the conversation when he saw that he 
was about to be questioned. Parram came to the con- 
clusion that as the sacristan did not know her name, 
neither did Fra Abby. He had lost sight of Judith for 
years, and had no idea where she might be, only that 
she was in Europe somewhere, and perhaps would live 
there the remainder of her life. Her expatriation had 
been the most agreeable- finality to their short domes- 
tic life and ultimate divorce. The further apart they 
were, and the more forgotten by each other, he felt, was 
the better. His mind had formed the habit of never 
thinking of her. In the confidence that he had the child, 
he had taught himself to think of other things; and 
when in Europe he had no more reason to expect to meet 
her in one place than in another. Expectation did not, 
therefore, keep him on the alert, or suggest her to him 
more in his sickness than in his health. His own reason- 
ing about it was that some American lady traveler, hav- 
ing accidentally seen him wounded, had cared for him 
for the moment, and had gone on her way. Although 
he had been told immediately on returning consciousness 
that she watched by his side day and night, yet, when 
so told, he was too weak to take in the fact in all its 
bearings. When he was so convalesced* as to walk about 
the cloisters and aisles as Judith had done, though weak 
and unsteady, he found himself often sitting before 
Guido Kene’s Ecce Homo, in the sacristy, fascinated by 
its deep but divine sorrow. Inscribed below were these 
words : quid mild facies- hoc tihi feci. I did this for 
thee; what wilt thou do for me. He read it at a moment 


The Convalescent. 


95 


when he felt more grateful for help and sympathy than 
usually belonged to his nature. Sickness had shown 
him his dependence on other strength than his own. If 
we have helping friends here below, why not more help- 
ful ones there above, where resources are exhaustless ? 
If one creature could succor another creature, why not 
the Creator succor all ? And so, Parram, with all his 
previous health and comforts, saw at last a chain of 
dependence . when he saw the words of the inscription 
on the picture of this compassionate Friend, there arose 
in his mind, as never before, the thought of a possible 
debt to Christ. One thing was evident, that man is not 
sufficient for man. Help must come from above for the 
helpless below. If the material had a center, why should 
not the moral ? If Christ died for man, is there nothing 
man should do for Christ ? These questions Parram now 
asked himself, who never asked such questions before. 
Fra Abby managed to be present whenever he thought 
the convalescent wished companionship. Hoping to find 
Parram’s heart new opened by the almost fatal peril 
through which he had just passed. Fra Abby joined him 
as he stood before the pictured Sufferer, and remarked. 

Art expresses the sentiment of religion as nothing else 
can.” 

Would it could give us the reason also,” returned 
Parram. ^^Like Abelard, I would know that I might 
believe, rather than like Anselm, believe that I might 
know.” 

Proof gives us belief ; intuition gives us faith; obser- 
vation gives us knowledge,” said Fra Abby. 

It is well that truth is many-sided, and may be seen 
from any approach. Judith sought belief through feel- 
ing; her husband sought feeling through belief; neither 
of them took religious truth on its own terms. There 


96 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

was no previous training to build on in either. Their 
characters, for want of this religious education and 
habits, were as destitute of any solid foundation as a, 
balloon. Suffering was the only school in which they 
could be made to feel and believe. To be finally saved, 
they must be first crushed. In this as in other feelings,, 
as Parram once said to Judith, ‘‘to change a heart of 
stone, is to break it.” 

Prove to me the immortality of the soul,” said Par- 
ram, apart from the authority of scripture, or of the 
church, for I do not know that I really credit their state- 
ments.” 

Of course,” replied Fra Abby, ^’we cannot know 
what we have not experienced ; but the admitted princi- 
ples of science, leave us no more doubt of this future 
than of any other future. The theory of evolution so 
eloquently elaborated by your English Spencer, proves 
the survivorship of the soul. The whole science of evo- 
lution, for ages called progressive development, a new 
name for an old idea, is crystallized in the formula — 
‘everything progresses forever.^ And what makes tho 
soul an exception ? Is it not more wonderful that it 
began than that it should continue ? Is it greater to sus- 
tain that to create ? But the equally great theory of the 
conservation of force proves the immortality of the souL 
The argument may be thus condensed: Everything that 
moves matter is force; mind moves matter; therefore,, 
mind is a force. Again: All force is indestructible; all 
mind is a force; therefore, all mind is indestructible.”' 

“But,” replied Parram, “force is preserved byre-ab- 
sorption into the whole quantity. When electricity is 
disengaged from special duty, it is dissipated into the 
totality of electricity. In other words, the Buddhist 
believes that his individuality is annihilated at death. 


The Convalescent. 


97 


and he goes into Nirvana, or the impersonal Infinity.” 

But,” replied Fra Abby, I only know that I have 
a mind-force at all by my consciousness, and that same 
consciousness testifies of my individuality; so that if 
my consciousness testifies that I have a mind-force that 
is imperishable, because it is a force, it also testifies to 
the fact of its essential individuality. Indeed, it is a 
universal principle that there is no repetition, and so 
no identity. Each thing is itself. The most obtrusive 
fact in all the universe is the individuality of atoms and 
beings. The world is but an infinity of units of in- 
dividuals. Individuality is the love of nature. Once 
an individual, always an individual.” 

Fra Abby saw that the teaching of these two barren 
souls must come from God. Their pupilage was to be 
a long one. Like light for the eyes of the blind, truth 
must be given to them by degrees. Eeligious ideas were 
to be implanted in them as in the minds of children. 
And yet children would accept what they would reject. 
It is such wretchedly prepared units of society as these 
that so demoralize civilization, and baffle the efforts of 
the good. How much trouble such people bring upon 
themselves, and upon the world ! Bad early influences, 
or early godless influences, are expensive factors in the 
social problem. With all the very best training, some 
children will grow up wicked; but nothing else can be 
expected when they are neglected, or perverted. How 
many parents leave suffering to take out of their child- 
ren the evil which they themselves leave in them. It 
will, perhaps, be thus to the end — the good ever pursu- 
ing the evil to overcome its dominion, and to repair its 
ruins. God is patient, but cannot forget. 

All that Parram’s accident had done for him or J udith, 
in a higher sense, in their brief respective acquaintance 


98 Judith Carson ; or. Which was the Heiress. 

with the monastic life, seen during his sickness, was to 
modify some prejudices against religion, which they had 
before entertained. It is impossible, of course, to say 
how much impression for good had been made upon 
their minds and hearts. Truth never comes in vain. 
It records itself somewhere. There is nothing unimport- 
ant in spiritual culture. Every hair casts its shadow, 
and every sunbeam brings life with it. Moral responsi- 
bility is for what we do in the present, not for what we 
inherit in the past. Opinion is as fickle as the sheen of 
the sea, but duty is as fixed as the motionless shore. 
The inner life of these unhappy people was formed upon 
considerations of time and society — on impulse, not on 
duty. They hardly held themselves responsible for their 
life, certainly not for their belief. 

One day as Parram and Era Abby were returning from 
a walk as far as the strength of the convalescent would 
warrant, he raised his handkerchief to dry his forehead, 
moist from weakness, and his look of wonder may be 
better imagined than described when his eyes chanced 
to see the initials, J. 0., written on one corner. He 
looked at the handkerchief with an expression of utter 
perplexity, and he said, as if to himself: 

Why, whose is this ? ’’ 

Those were the maiden initials of his wife, and in 
her own handwriting. But how did this handkerchief 
come into his possession ? Fra Abby saw his surprise, 
and asked him why he seemed so puzzled. 

To account for the possession of this handkerchief,” 
Parram replied, holding up the one with Judith’s maiden 
initials. 

Is it not yours?” inquired Fra Abby. 

‘‘1 never saw it before,” returned Parram. 

What is there strange concerning it,” again inquired 
Era Abby 


The Co7ivalescent. 


99 


These are the maiden initials of my late wife/’ he 
answered. ^^But the present puzzle with me is, how 
this handkerchief came into my hands.” 

cannot help you to a solution,” said Fra Abby, 

unless your wife left it as she was nursing you.” 

My wife! ” exclaimed Parram, has she been here?” 

“ Yes,” replied Fra Abby, ^^she happened to be near 
the spot when you were stricken down, and had you 
brought here, and she nursed you until consciousness 
returned, when she hastily left the city.” 

Have you any idea which way she went ?” inquired 
Parram. 

‘^None in the least,” replied Fra Abby. She was 
most reserved, and seemed intent only upon the duties 
of mere humanity. As soon as she was assured of your 
consciousness and near convalescence, she positively 
refused to come here again, and said that she had no 
further duty.” 

Parram fell into a profound reflection, and with eyes 
flxed in abstraction on the ground, walked on in silence 
that told plainly enough what his thoughts were upon. 
The initials evidently showed that Judith had resumed 
her maiden name since the divorce. Fifteen years had 
passed since then, and he had so thoroughly accustomed 
himself at first to hate, and then forget her, that he 
awoke to the fact of her existence as something strangely 
new. The impression was singularly disturbing to learn, 
that in his hour of entire and helpless unconsciousness, 
she had picked him up, a stranger in the streets of a 
foreign city, and had cared for him as one human being 
would care for another. He did not settle in his own 
mind whether he was grateful for her care of him, or 
angry with the providential circumstances which had 
thrown him upon her kindness. She had now just that 


100 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

advantage of him, of a service which he could not return. 
He could never get even with her. He thought that she 
would enjoy his annoyance at his obligation. She was, in 
his estimation, perverse and unnatural. She had never, 
to his knowledge, sought to see their child, and seemed 
to abandon it with indifference. How inscrutable are 
human motives! We mistake those of friends and ma^ 
lign or pervert those of enemies. No act is based on 
any one motive. In considering the pros and cons of an 
action, first one reason presents itself, and then another; 
and when we attempt to account for the act to others, 
we shall give that reason for it which occurs at the 
moment. It may be the controlling reason, or only one 
of the many that passed through the mind. We know 
neither ourselves nor others. 

Parram attributed Judith’s apparent abandonment 
of the child which he tore from her arms, and which 
he thought hers, to a hatred of him (and in this he 
was right), and to a maternal indifference; and yet the 
reader has seen that she was, as a mother, insanely the 
reverse. If there ever was a passion morbidly developed 
in a woman, the maternal passion intensified by conjugal 
hatred was in Judith. To gratify these passions, and 
under their urgency, she had made her whole life a 
secrecy — a flight — a solitude. It is a relief to know 
that when our lives are to be judged, and the balance 
exactly adjusted, we shall be before a Father all-know- 
ing and just. It is fortunate that enemies are not to 
judge each other. Are friends more competent ? If 
the former are too prejudiced, the latter are too pre- 
possessed; neither can be unbiased judges. Like the 
positive and negative poles of electricity, Parram and 
Judith mutually repelled each other. She had been only 
slightly softened — he had fallen below the apologies of 


The Convalescent, 


101 


friendship. The dangers of the threatened revolution 
which she thought would repel him from Paris, attracted 
her because her child was there. Her soul, like a cavern 
washed by the sea, was agitated by evernew vicissitudes 
from without, awaking varied apprehensions, if not 
throbbing anxieties, each day within. 

Will she risk a revolution in Paris? 


CHAPTER XIIL 

ANTIPATHIES. 

Antipathies are the natural sentinels of the heart. 
They are shadowed hesitations — distrustful feelings — 
un shaped warnings. 

We must here bring back into our notice a character 
mentioned in our second chapter — Crawford Carpenter. 

After the Rev. Mr. Carpenter had become settled 
again in his ministerial work, he put his son Crawford 

at school at , where he, like all school boys, made 

acquaintances, and formed relations that entered into 
his whole after-life. 

There were here about seventy boys in all. Many 
became life-long friends or life-long enemies. 

Soon after he entered school, an incident occurred that 
it may be well here to mention. Among the boys was one 
by the name of Thomas Kroger, who assumed to him- 
self quite a domineering power over the rest. He was a 
bright student; but ambitious, selfish, cunning and cruel. 

The boys submitted to his overbearing behavior rather 
than risk an issue in a contest of prowess; but nearly 
all wished him away or soundly thrashed. Of course 
he had some few friends, as all pushing, smart, confi- 
dent characters will have ; but by the best boys he was 
shunned, if not feared. He was older than Crawford 
Carpenter, perhaps a little stouter, but not so firmly 
knit, nor so active. 

In his conceit, selfishness and evident physical suffi- 
ciency, he had become possessed of the idea that he was 
a sort of king in the school. 

103 


Antipathies, 103 

One day he was rude and insolent to a boy much 
younger and not near so strong as himself. The dis- 
pute was about a game of marbles, Kreger claiming and 
seizing the younger boy’s marbles in defiance of his 
protest, and the general opinion of the bystanders. He 
disregarded all the demands of the younger, and, in 
resentment of his denunciations, gave him a severe blow 
in his face. A fight, of course, oecurred, and as he was 
proving too much for his weaker antagonist, Crawford 
Carpenter came up, shaming Kreger and ealled upon 
the boys to part the combatants, attempting himself 
to do it. Kreger turned furiously upon him and dealt 
him a heavy blow, which he warded ofi, and all here 
interfered to prevent another fight. 

But Kreger remembered it. He determined to be 
revenged upon Crawford for daring to question his right 
to rule as he pleased. He saw that he was not to have 
things his own way, undisputed. Having, fortunately 
or instinctively, always made his issues with those whom 
he could master, he became presumptuous of his strength 
and championship. 

In the classes, Crawford was clearly his superior, and 
Kreger’s only ground of supremacy among the boys, was 
the animal one of force, and an assumption of power. 
He assumed what no one had chosen to dispute, but 
which had its surprises and disappointments as every- 
thing else has. 

Many a coward terrorizes over a community until some 
accident presents his master. A company of school boys 
is an autonomy, with its customs, its laws, its judiciary, 
its executive leader, and its public opinion, as effective 
as that of the general state. This boy Kreger sought to 
despotize over this little imperium in imperio, and while 
^^Csesar had his Brutus, Charles the 1st his Cromwell/’ 
Thomas Kreger had — his Crawford Carpenter. 


104 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

As a rule, boys know nothing of tact in averting a 
trouble, especially when the aggressor thinks himself 
ruler. So, one day a trifling circumstance brought the 
two boys into more definite adjustments of power. 

The morning prayer bell rung,, and as they were all 
huddling in to avoid tardy marks, Kreger said with a 
sneer, looking towards Crawford, ^‘1 hate prayers.” 

Crawford said nothing, if he even noticed the pro- 
voking look. 

Kreger took Crawford’s silence as an expression of fear 
or indifference. If the latter, it stung his presumptuous 
self-conceit, and if the former, he determined to exult 
over it. So, that day, at play-hour, he contrived to turn 
the chat among the boys upon churches and preachers. 

Crawford said nothing, but went on as well as he could 
with his play. 

At last, Kreger made proclamation that he would 
preach a sermon. Calling the boys around him, he made 
as ridiculous a speech as he was capable of making, and 
when some boy asked him if he intended to be a preacher, 
he jumped down from the stump upon which he had 
stood to make his mock sermon, and replied, ^^Ko, do 
you think I wish to be a lazy liar! ” 

Crawford, remembering that his father was a minister 
wliose whole life had been one of innocency and use- 
fulness, replied, You have seen poor specimens if you 
think preachers are liars.” 

Ha! ha! ” laughed Kreger, in reply, that is a good 
one. Didn’t I see your father when he brought you 
here ? ” 

Do you mean to say that my father is a liar ?” in- 
quired Crawford, walking towards Kreger. 

^^If I did,” replied Kreger, ^^what are you going to 
do about it ?” 


Antipathies. 


105 


As quick as lightning, Crawford Carpenter seized 
Xreger by the throat and whirled him to the earth, and 
the two rolled on the ground in fiercest struggle. 

The boys rushed up and separated them ; but no 
sooner were they on their feet than Kreger fiercely 
cursed Crawford. 

Boys,’’ said Crawford, ^‘let me get to him and settle 
this matter here and now. ” 

The boys cheered him. Jerking ofi his coat, and fully 
aroused, he forced his way towards Kreger, who had by 
this time pulled his coat off, and at it the two went. 

The will of the two boys would brook no arbitration. 
This contest for supremacy on the part of Kreger, and 
for self-independence on the part of Crawford, had been 
brewing from the first, and it must there be settled. 

The two boys were all muscle. Kreger, the elder, all 
bate, and Crawford all will and quickness. The strug- 
gle was between brute passion and strength on the one 
part, and intelligent and brave manliness on the other. 
There was no victory, though the battle had been a dam- 
aging one on both sides. 

The teacher, finding out what was going on, was soon 
on the ground, and ended it. 

The investigation that followed, revealed the facts to 
the teacher as we have narrated them. 

Kreger had nothing to say. Crawford admitted that 
he struck the first blow, and he justified it in the insult 
he had received. But did not Kreger strike the first 
blow, who made any blow at all necessary ? The guilt 
of violence begins in the provocation. The blow was in 
the insult. 

Had Crawford’s father been there, he would have 
taught his son that the innocent can be patient with the 


106 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

ignorant, and that rudeness disproves its own denuncia- 
tions. 

But boys do not reason much. That comes, if it comes^ 
at all, in after-life. We do much in youth, that we see, 
in after-life, might have been avoided. Man resents; 
God forgives. 

Thus it stood until a circumstance occurred several 
days after, when the boys went by rail on a short excur- 
sion, when, but for Crawford Carpenter, an accident 
might have been fatal to Kreger. 

In the afternoon, when the boys were about to return 
home, and the train was ready, the starting signal given, 
and all were seated, Thomas Kreger, acting unconsciously^ 
upon his innate disposition to assume importance, loit- 
ered in the station, as if he expected that the train would 
not leave him, but would wait his convenience ; and 
attempted, when the train was slowly moving off, to 
board it in time. As he reached the cars, now increas- 
ing their speed, he caught the platform rail, but missed 
the step, and would have been whirled directly under 
the wheels, but for the timely and firm grasp of Crawford 
Carpenter, who, with others, happened to be on tho 
platform, and was watching the provokingly tardy move- 
ments of Kreger. Crawford held the wrist of Kreger 
with resolute will and energy, to the great danger of 
being himself drawn into Kreger’s fatal predicament. 
With one hand he held to Kreger, and with the other he- 
clung to the stanchion of the platform rail, until their 
peril was discovered and the train could be stopped. 

The boy in place saved the boy out of place. The 
quiet boy saved the blustering boy. 

These boys seemed to have parallel lives running in 
opposite directions. 


Antipathies. 107 

After this occurrence, the teacher announced, as to 
the fight, that if Kreger and Crawford would promise 
that no more outbreaks should occur, and would mutu- 
ally apologize and shake hands, he would pardon their 
breach of discipline. 

Crawford at once said, will make no apologies or 
promises. What 1 did and why I did it, the boys all 
know.” 

Kreger said, ‘^Crawford Carpenter saved me from 
destruction by the cars, for which I thank him. I retract 
my language and ask his forgiveness.” 

Crawford replied, “That is unnecessary. It is now 
passed, and let us never speak of it again.” 

The teacher was relieved, that any acceptable turn 
could be given to it, and told the boys to go to their 
studies. 

There was no longer a bull-dog in that school, but 
there was a fox. 

Fifteen or sixteen years passed. These boys grew up 
to be men, and entered upon the active duties of life. 
They both became lawyers, and opened their ofiftces in 
the same city. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

THE REVOLUTIONISTS. 

A man may run away from his record, but he cannot 
run away from himself or from his shadow, as Parram 
found. 

When Crawford Carpenter found himself in London 
attending to the interests of both English and American 
bondholders, and the holders of American stock, it be- 
came evident, as the business was seen to be more and 
more entangled, that he must, if possible, find George 
Parram, then somewhere in Europe, to explain the finan- 
cial mystery. He sought him in Paris. 

As the train was speeding along its track from Rouen 
to Paris, in the year 1870, with battered villages, and 
fields on either side wasted by both Prussian and French 
armies, it bore in the same compartment several persons, 
and among them two persons known to the reader — 
Herman Laroche and Crawford Carpenter. The latter 
remarked that a revolution seemed to be threatened in 
Paris. 

To his surprise, Laroche said with a certain emphasis 
in his tone, wrongs are to right themselves.” 

What wrongs ?” inquired Carpenter. 

^^Why,” rejoined Laroche, ‘‘the wrongs of the poor. 
Why should one set of men do all the work and have 
nothing, and another set do no work and have all the 
money ?” 

“Because,” replied Carpenter, “if the rich in Paris 
are like those in America, they who now do all the work, 
may in the end have all the money.” 

108 




The Revolutionists. 


109 


Oblige everyone to do some work, ’ said Laroche. 
“ What right in this country have those who do nothing 
in it 

Too many work now,” replied Carpenter. There 
is not work for all. It is fortunate for those who do all 
the work, and have no money, that there are some who 
do no work and have all the money. There is more work 
for the poor when there is less work by the rich. 

Another Frenchman present said Socialism demands 
that the laborer shall reap the whole fruits of his labor.” 

“ But what,” replied Carpenter, ^‘is the whole fruit 
of any one man’s labor ? The farmer who produces the 
wheat is not entitled to its whole market value. The 
carrier who takes it to market, the miller who reduces it 
to flour, and the merchant who effects its sale, has each 
a claim on the wheat. In this labor of the world, each 
helps all, and all help each. No one lives unto himself. 
The hand needs the head, and the head needs the hand. ” 
What do you,, in America, think of the public own- 
ership of all lands?” asked the Frenchman. 

‘‘Some one,” answered Carpenter, “has only repro- 
duced, as an agitator, the doctrines that Herbert Spen- 
cer had taught as a philosopher. There is nothing new 
in such theories ; and no writer should be made odious 
for social theories he did not originate. With slight 
modifications, this teaching runs back to the agra- 
rian laws of the Kingdom of Eome, over two thousand 
years ago. The unstable equilibrium between capital 
and labor ever will come up in the future as it ever has 
in the past. Its final solution must be left to the natural 
evolution of events, and not to any conventional appoint- 
ment by arbitrary legislation. ” 

“ If things are not changed by the rich, they will be 
by the poor,” said Laroche. 



110 Jiidith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

‘^The dividing line/’ replied Carpenter, is not the 
material one of poverty and wealth, or the rich and the 
poor, but the moral one of the good and the bad — the 
virtuous and the vicious. The rich have no monopoly 
of virtue, nor the poor of vice.” 

I see that you do not divide people into higher and 
lower classes,” said Laroche. 

In human character,” was the reply, nothing is 
high but virtue, and nothing is low but vice. If there 
is to be a revolution, it will be begun by the vicious who 
have everything to gain, and nothing to lose, and not by 
the virtuous who have everything to lose and nothing to 
gain. ” 

Could it not be begun,” asked Laroche, ‘^by those 
who have no work ?” 

‘‘ How would revolution give them work ?” asked 
Carpenter. You cannot force trade, you cannot force 
wages. The prosperous observe the laws of prosperity. 
The law of business and the law of beneficence are dis- 
tinct, but successive. The law of demand and supply, 
which is the law of business, is as inexorable as the law 
of gravitation. The dealer in country produce who 
should lay in a stock of rattlesnakes and continue to lay 
them in when there was no demand for them, would fail 
in business just as certainly as he would who should pay 
two dollars a day for work which others were getting 
done for one. All would soon undersell him and get 
his business. Are you organized ?” 

Yes,” said Laroche, as a pack of wolves in sight of 
the prey.” 

What is your demand ?” 

The abolition of private property in land, and the 
division of all property,” replied Laroche. 


The RevoUUionists, 


111 


your demand be refused, what then ?” 

^‘Then the logic of the torch.’’ 

Then what ?” 

Whatever its light reveals.” 

Revolution without a motive,” remarked CarY)enter, 

is anarchy.” 

But we have a motive,” was the reply. 

‘^What is it ?” 

^‘The abolition of all private property in land.” 

That will not enrich the poor.” 

“But it will impoverish the rich.” 

“This,” interposed Carpenter, “is revenge, not re- 
form.” 

“ Reform,” replied the German, “ will come out of 
revenge.” 

“ Will the ouvriers — the workmen — join you ?” asked 
Carpenter. 

“Possibly: but their interests and ours,” answered 
the German, “are not the same. While we war on 
property, it is necessity of the workingmen with families, 
to preserve it. They need the markets of peace, and the 
patronage of the rich. Therefore, we repudiate families, 
as enslaving encumbrances.” 

“ Do you propose to abolish marriage ?” 

“ Only to legalize a community of wives without it. 
Where poverty of circumstances forbids marriage to the 
poor, why should there be any law permitting it in the 
rich ?” 

“This,” exclaimed Carpenter, “is indeed socialism — 
nihilism — anarchism — diabolism. ” 

“ It will be equality, at least,” was the reply. 

“ Only for a moment,” said Carpenter; “ unequal peo- 
ple will make unequal lives.” 


112 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

^^Let me ask,” interposed an American gentlemen of 
the party, why should laborers be ground down to low 
wages, while the capitalist, with his surplus in bank, 
could pay high wages.” 

I object,” observed Carpenter, the mixing up 
of the laborers’ business question of right, with the so- 
cialistic question of revolution. But, in passing, it may 
be said that the surplus of the capitalist in bank is, in 
brisk times, the bread and butter of the operative in dull 
times. In the summer the bee stores up its honey for 
the winter; the squirrel fills its home with nuts; and all 
life, both vegetable and animal, looks out for the future. 
Business has instincts like animals and trees. Besides, 
the surplus of this year is not the surplus of this year’s- 
work, but it is the accumulated surplus of all the past 
life and years of the business. Without this bank sur- 
plus in the present, there may be the workman’s starva- 
tion in the future. This surplus is the workmen’s 
insurance for future work and bread; it is the salary of 
the capitalist for his risk in his ventures — for finding 
markets, and for his talent and energy in managing tho 
business of all. This is a matter of business, and not a 
matter of sentiment or of revolutionary passion. The 
first thing in business is not capital, not labor, but a 
market; and the second is — a market; and the third is 
— a market. The labor of the world must hate the 
world for a m arket. All cannot h ave employment, unless 
all are left free and able to employ. As the market, so 
is the business; as the business, so are the wages. Kev- 
olution destroys market — business — wages — wealth — in 
a word, in revolutions who is to pay the wages of the 
poor ?” 

We’ll find some way. Poverty is desperate,” fiercely 


The Revolutionists, 


113 


replied Laroche. ‘‘You cannot deny that there are hun- 
dreds and thousands out of work and need bread.” 

“ This may be the misfortune of the poor, but it is not 
the fault of the rich,” was the answer. 

“Who else has any money to help but the rich?” 
inquired Laroche.^ 

“ In this you seem to change your ground from insuf- 
ficient wages, which is a matter of business, to insufficient 
charity, which is a matter of beneficence — in other words, 
you would force the rich to give what the poor do not 
earn. If the rich give all their money away in charity 
— to support the idle and vicious — what will they have 
with which to pay the wages of the industrious and the 
virtuous ? The rich have but little money on hand. If 
Rothschild, of London, were to help all that you think 
he should help, he would not only have no capital on 
which to do business, but in calling in his money, he 
would derange the business of the world, and put more 
families into suffering than he would take out. There 
is not an idle dollar in the world; but, it is the business 
necessity of money to hasten from one to another and be 
ever in use. The rich cannot eat their money; it is 
always out in other people’s hands, and their ownership 
is nothing but a credit. I have no doubt that you, this 
moment, have more money in your pocket than Vander- 
bilt has in his.” 

“But he can go and get money when he wants it,” 
replied Laroche. 

“ Yes, he can go and get the money he himself has 
saved or that his ancestors earned and saved for him; and 
you can go and get the money you earn for yourself, and 
save it for your children, if you choose,” returned Craw- 
ford Carpenter. 


114 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress, 

Look at the credits, bonds, watered stocks, and the 
thousand other frauds of financial operators.’’ 

Crawford Carpenter saw that this was too true; for 
he himself was then abroad to ferret out dishonest ma- 
nipulation of stock and bond securities; but he quietly 
asked, ‘^why should the poor revolutionize a country 
because speculator cheats speculator — or diamond cuts 
diamond ? ” 

‘‘Why not say dog eats dog,” was the ungracious 
version of Laroche. 

“Look at the grinding, grasping, heartless monopo- 
lies of capitalists,” remarked another of the travelers. 
“ How they tyrannize over the people as if they owned 
them; and it would seem that they did. So many are 
in their employ; so many invest money in their stocks; 
so effective are commercial organizations in handling 
men, in crushing competition by money, in controlling 
public opinion, that some incorporated monopolies are 
irresistible, whether against the power of the rich, the 
necessities of the poor, or the demands of the public.” 

“And though I admit,” said Crawford Carpenter, 
“ that there is much truth in what you allege, yet what 
monopoly does not serve us at rates immeasurably below 
what such service would be without it? By cheapening 
service they spoil us.” 

“ Rather,” was the reply, “ by enlightening, they 
enrage us, when we see that they could give us even 
lower rates than they do.” 

“If they lower the rates of vservice,” replied Carpen- 
ter, “they lower the wages of the workmen who serve. 
Besides, the rich must spend the money they make. If 
they live in fine houses, workmen must build them ; 
they may have fine furniture, but mechanics must make 


The Revolutionists. 


115 


it. The more they have the more they spend, and the 
more they spend the more work for workmen.’’ 

‘‘ What then is the reason that so many are out of 
employment ? ” 

The competitions of life, by being congested and 
crowded in large cities, are unbalanced. Malthus would 
say that the increase of population is greater than the 
increase of subsistence.” 

‘‘But this cannot be true,” replied an American who 
was listening; “ because the more people the more labor, 
and the more labor the more j^roduction, the more should 
be the wages, the more comfort and the less suffering.” 

“ The financial trouble in one country or hemisphere,” 
replied Crawford Carpenter, “ breaks up the demand of 
its markets for the handicrafts of other countries. The 
cause of thousands of unemployed people in London may 
be a Black Friday in New York. The commercial rela- 
tions of the whole world are now so inseparable that, like 
a row of bricks, when one goes down, all go down, both 
rich and poor. At su^ times, when in the law of busi- 
ness, disorganized demand disorganizes the supply, the 
law of beneficence must be active to help unavoidable 
want of employment. There is no other way than for 
the two laws of business and beneficence to attend each 
other, and adjust the ever unstable equilibrium of de- 
mand and supply — of the rich and the poor. I do not 
admit that the more population the more is the labor. 
No one labors who can help it. The increase of popula- 
tion proportionately increases idleness, vice, pauperism. 
The problem of unemployed people, whether through 
misfortune or vice, is, and ever will be, one of the un- 
stable equilibrium of social forces. These human affairs, 
especially in our large cities now so rapidly increasing. 


116 Judith Carson; or^ Which was the Heiress. 

are like an untrimmed ship, rolling badly in heavy seas. 
But for agitation, these troubles would be left in the 
future as in the long past, to adjust themselves; leaving 
to the flexible laws of beneficence all that could not be 
evolved from the operation of the inflexible laws of busi- 
ness. Crazy enthusiasts and revolutionists are desperate 
in their championship of poverty.. Workingmen work, 
and their political agitators, who themselves live in idle 
luxury, tell them how hard they work, and how little 
they get for it. When left to themselves, the most press- 
ing hardship of which workmen complain is, that they 
do not obtain more work; not that wages are too low. 
There is no hope to the idle — there is no despair to the 
industrious.’’ 

And for wages men are slaves,” muttered Laroche. 

^^Is this an experience with you, or an agitator’s the- 
ory of the workmen’s condition ? In America, almost 
every rich man was formerly a workman ; and if he is 
hard upon his workmen, he is hard upon what he was 
once himself. It has, indeed, ‘"^een noticed, that the 
prosperity of the man once poor, tends to harden his 
nature when rich. He feels no mercy for any and sees 
no justice but for himself. Generally, men born rich 
are generous to men born poor.” 

Are we to be told,” asked the same American gentle- 
man who seemed willing to get into the conversation, 
‘Hhat Progress is not guilty in the presence of Poverty, 
where, amidst the greatest accumulation of wealth, men 
die of starvation; where feasting Dives shuts out the 
image of Lazarus fainting in hunger at his door; where 
ragged, shoeless, hatless women and children tramp the 
streets in the summer, and go fireless and breadless to 
their filthy straw at night in the winter; where puny 


The Revolutionists, 


117 


infants suckle dry breasts of pale, despairing motliers ; 
and where rich Christians bend on Sundays in nice up- 
holstered pews to implore the good gifts of the All- 
Tather?’’ 

There was a bitterness of tone in these words that 
shows how the exaggerations of the imagination and the 
distortions of passion may eloquently assume to be his- 
tory. 

The rich man, as you have described him,’’ replied 
Crawford Carpenter, was once a poor boy.” 

‘‘Yes,” it was muttered, “these upstarts of wealth— 
these parvenues — who call themselves the upper classes 
of society,' in most instances are only the scum, or the 
descendants of the scum boiled up from the dregs of the 
bottom.” 

Crawford Carpenter quietly remarked: “So far as I 
have observed, the condition of society of which you 
speak is true only as to the vile, but utterly untrue as to 
the worthy. The rich do not make the poor to be poor, 
or the vile to be vile. You describe the pets of the cafes. 
You have reproachfully said that when rich Christians 
bend low in nicely upholstered pews on Sunday to ask 
good gifts of the All-Father, within a square away are 
ragged women and children to whose condition they are 
indifferent. What have you to say of the thousands not 
far away for whom he does provide work and bread ? 
We will suppose that this rich Christian is a large man- 
ufacturer, and employs a thousand men, women and 
children. Sometimes he realizes upon their labor, and 
sometimes he does not. Through the failure of the 
market by competition, by change in the market itself, 
by financial embarrassments, or in some other way, 
he has great difficulty to keep his business going, and 


118 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

his thousand operatives at work and in bread. After 
years of doubt, struggle and wise judgment, his busi- 
ness is established. But the energy and judgment that- 
builds up business, are always necessary to keep it up.. 
One thousand people depend upon that energy and 
judgment. His large bank account is the slow accumu- 
lations of years, of business vicissitudes, and keeps his. 
thousand operatives in comforting hopes. To keep them 
up, there must be, every week, ready money for their 
wages, whether sales are great or small. Shall he take- 
bread from the mouths of these thousand who work, 
and put it in mouths of those who do not and will not 
work ? If the idle have not bread, it may be their mis- 
fortune, but in no case is it the fault of the capitalist. 
In all cities there will be unavoidable squalor, degreda- 
tion and misery. The people in your mind are not work 
people. They are the loathesome pariahs that ever have 
been and ever will be incident to urban society. The 
puny infants you mention, are the children of Shame, 
nursing at the breasts of Vice. Those you mention are 
the heritage of sin — they are the belles of the beer halls 
— the heroes of sluggers — the princes of pickpockets — 
the companions of burglars and robbers. It is a slander 
to say that there is a workingman among them. The 
same human failures are found everywhere, whether 
wages are high or low. The dwellers of the slums can- 
not escape suffering; but you confound the haunts of 
crime with the homes of labor. There are people who 
will not work — who want beer at low prices rather than 
labor at high prices. They are ever consumers and never 
producers. Give them land and they would desert it, 
and gravitate to the evil living of cities. It has been 
aptly said that there are the Lord’s poor, the devil’s poor 


The Revolutionists, 


119 


and the poor devils. The Lord’s people will care for the 
Lord’s poor. The police must care for the devil’s poor 
and the poor devils. The rich and the religious will take 
the contract to relieve all who suffer from no work, or 
from low wages, if men who hold your vyews will close 
the dram shops. The liquor bill of' the United States, 
where I am better acquainted than I am here in France, 
is said to be seven hundred millions of dollars. There 
is a poor fund for you ! Eeligion cannot save those who 
will destroy themselves. If people won’t, they won’t, 
and that is all there is about it.” 

‘^How, then,” inquired Laroche, ‘‘is this question of 
poverty amidst progress to be solved ? 

“Let those,” replied Carpenter, “who cause the pov- 
erty relieve the poverty they cause, and those who decry 
religion for not doing more good do more good them- 
selves, and denounce the slums for doing all the harm. 
The one great lie of the universe is in charging pauper- 
ism and consequent suffering upon religion or upon the 
low wages of labor, rather than upon the low price of 
beer. Let effects be assigned to their true causes. The 
cause of most, if not all, or nearly all the suffering, is in 
the determined, arrogant, defiant traffic in intoxicating 
drinks. The capital invested in their manufacture, and 
the money spent in their consumption, would build rail- 
roads to new territories, open new markets, build new 
factories, and immensely augment wages. This terrible 
power more than pulls down all that the great humaniz- 
ing agencies build up. This question will be settled 
only by wiping out this destructive monster, not by pull- 
ing down men of substance, of families, and of public 
responsibility. If the rich lose all, the poor gain noth- 
ing. If you decrease general wealth, you increase general 
poverty. ” 


130 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Hewess. 

You seem to see all things only on the side of the 
rich,” remarked one of the company. 

try to see things as they are, whether on the side 
of the rich or of the poor,” replied Carpenter. I 
would save the.poor by not destroying the rich. I would 
not destroy the goo^e that lays the golden egg. Society 
is one concatenated whole. If you pull up the highest 
link in a chain, you j)ull up the lowest. If you let down 
the highest, you let down the lowest. Every man must 
bear his own burden; especially when he has made it 
himself. The man that does the wrong must suffer the 
consequences. If the poor man willfully burns his hand, 
the rich man is not to blame. No business, beneficence, 
creed, religion or government can have it otherwise. 
Let the police attend to the poverty of these slums, or 
rather let them shut up the slums, and let rich men, as 
a religious duty, attend to the poverty of those who 
would but cannot get work, or who have been surprised 
by some unmanageable misfortune.” 

But the rich do not do this,” remarked Laroche. 

They are observing the law of beneficence more and 
more,” said Carpenter, either by taxation or voluntary 
contribution, or both; there has been great increase of 
helpful institutions — hospitals for the sick, asylums for 
the young, dispensaries for the poor, homes for the aged 
and indigent. Eeligion of every creed is doing all it 
can. * But, let me ask, is this uprising in Paris a strike 
or a revolution ? ” 

* The town council of Paris has lately opened several night shel- 
ters, each of which has accomodations for several hundred outcasts. 
When applicants arrive at these homes, where they may remain 
several days at a time, they get a thorough overhauling in a bath, 
and are then given a fresh outfit and a bowl of soup. There are 


The Revolutionists. 


121 


^‘Suppose it is both/’ replied Laroche. It matters 
not who begins, so that the end is relief ?” 

‘^But,” remarked Cai’penter, ‘‘relief is reached by 
neither strikes nor revolution. I would be a revolution- 
ist like you, if that would make the poor happy, and no^ 
make the rich undeservedly unhappy. But peevish rev- 
olutions kill labor, and boomerang strikes kill wages. 
As between capital and labor, in strikes, whichever wins, 
both lose. If strikes are special, they are unjust, as 
other places, where there are no strikes, get the advan- 
tage. If they are general, they are useless ; for with the 
increase of wages increases the cost of living. The pur- 
chasing power of wages naturally low, is as great as the 
purchasing power of wages artificially high.” 

“ But we are again discussing the wrong question,” 
interrupted the German. “We must not mix up the 
slow, financial question of capital and labor, which is 
not ready for adjustment, with the open, ever ready, and 
more vital question of social equality. The latter is our 
question, not the former.” 

“How can there be social equality without financial 
equality ?” asked some one. 

three other night refuges belonging to the (Euvre de V Hospitalite 
de Nuit, established in 1878. This work is kept up by voluntary 
contributions. It receives cast-off clothing, bread, and all sorts of 
crumbs from rich men’s tables for distribution. In addition to 
providing nightly lodgings for the miserable, it receives the con- 
valescent from hospitals, and finds places for those who are willing 
to work. Last year it received 60,000 homeless creature, many of 
whom remained for several consecutive nights. Of these 50,000 
were French, 3,221 Germans, 2,112 Belgian, 890 Swiss, 602 Italian, 
and 70 English. Over 76,000 pieces of bread and 15,000 bowls of 
soup, or other rations, were served and 15,000 articles of clothing 
distributed. The total expense was $350,000. 


122 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress, 

Equality in either is equality in both/’ sententiously 
answered the German. 

social equality is ever realized/’ remarked Craw- 
ford Carpenter, ^‘it will be the only equality in the uni- 
verse. ” 

Why did not your God,” asked the German, with a 
sinister tone, ‘‘make conditions and experiences more 
equal ? ” 

“ Why did not that which you call nature, and which 
you put in the place of God,” replied Carpenter, “ make 
them less unequal ? Either under my God or what you 
call nature, inequality is both the fact and the harmony 
of the universe. That which is positive in one direction, 
is negative in another. A rich man is poor to one richer, 
and a poor man is rich to one poorer. The man that is 
great to a small man is small to a greater man. That 
which is natural to supernature, is supernatural to 
Nature.” 

“As we enter Paris,” -said Laroche, “we shall hear 
the rappel calling upon hopeless humanity to arbitrate, 
upon a strength right or wrong, the inequalities that 
curse the world. La propriete est un voV’ 

“ Then,” remarked Carpenter, “reason must be silent 
before the corrective lessons of experience.” 

The German who had been silent laughed with a fierce 
earnestness, and almost shouted : 

“Reason is the mirage always raised by the rich to 
mislead the poor. We listen to its persuasion, but we 
are no happier. Our beds are still in attics ; our homes 
are still in the streets ; the burthens are still on our 
backs ; the rich still scold and despise us ; poverty still 
tempts our souls into what you call sin ; our daughters 
are still transient companions of the moneyed lord ; and 


The Revolutionists. 


123 


before man and God — if there be a God — we groan 
under a dreadful despair/’ 

The condition of this man’s mind was curious indeed. 
Not seeking work himself, nor desiring it ; with money 
always in liis pocket, and with leisure to travel, he had 
wrought himself for the moment into the belief that he 
was a poor and an oppressed man. It was a piece of 
dramatic champiouship of imaginary wrongs — sheer 
acting, but earnestly felt, as the realistic actor feels the 
character he is representing. 

Is there then no hope for the population of these 
wretched quarters in our cities ? 

There is no remedy to be found but in the experience 
of experiment. Anarchy is its own cure. Men must 
learn that low wages are better than no wages, that some 
hope is better 'than all despair. 

Civil government as a matter of selfpreservation, and 
religion as a matter of humanity, must not despair of an 
ultimate solution of the question. But as long as there 
is sin in the world, there will be such people. Drunk- 
enness is the monster of human ills. If the socialists 
would shut up the beer-cellars, they need not burn up 
the factory or the palace. Instead of tearing down mon- 
uments, firing temples, and devastating palaces, why do 
not anarchists, — nihilists and revolutionists — destroy 
the fiend-factories of the drinking dens ? There is abso- 
lutely no other remedy. Christian progress'is not respon- 
sible for unchristian poverty so long as the dram-shop 
is an impovershing power. Christian men and women 
go into elections to get the public law to help their pri- 
vate charities, and the sellers of maddening and debas- 
ing drinks will defeat them. Let not anarchy taunt 
religious beneficence as long as there are more dram-shops 


124 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

than churches or school-houses. Drunkenness is the 
heart of all irremediable pauperism. 

As I pass the palace of the rich/’ said Laroche, I 
see the cheerful light, and hear the sounds of revelry ; 
and, as I pass on in the darkness to the vile shops where 
cheap wines create in the brain the poor man’s heaven, 
and degraded women are his only angels, I cannot but 
think, and thinking, curse the inequality that I cannot 
overcome, and the degradation from which I cannot 
escape.” 

'‘Bach man,” said Carpenter, "must watch for his 
own opportunity to escape. No one can watch for him.” 

" The j)oor wretch’s opportunity is limited by hunger,” 
remarked Laroche. 

"But more by vice,” rejoined Carpenter. "Econo- 
my is in sobriety. Drink — 

"Drowns failures,” interrupted Laroche. 

" And makes them,” answered Carpenter. 

As flocks of ravens caught in a whirlwind are swept 
in the one, same descending curves, or as loose grains of 
sand scattered upon a pane of glass come together at the 
vibrations of either the blast of war-bugles or the carols 
of peace, so homeless men — men without moral habits 
or domestic sentiments — breadless men, indolent men, 
unmarried, tempted, and infamous women — children 
born in cellars and housed under the open skies — all 
these can become a blind, wild, insane mob, every one 
with his own reckless purpose and aimless wretchedness, 
stabbing at realities he cannot see, and clutching at 
phantom hopes and helps out of the brooding cloud of 
despair that he can feel. 

Sure enough, as predicted by Laroche, as our travelers 
entered Paris they saw restless crowds in the streets and 
boulevards, under revolutionary excitement. 


The Revolutionists. 


125 


One who has never seen Paris lashing itself into a 
revolution can form no idea of it. The least word or 
action of an unusual kind in the street suffices to collect 
a crowd, sound the rappel, and create a panic. If one 
person run, all will run. Fear is the most contagious 
of passions. On the night of these excitements which 
we are now reporting, passing from the Place Vendome, 
up the Rue de la Paix, across the junction of the streets 
at this point, into the Boulevard des ItalienSy des Mont- 
marte, des Poissoriiere as far as Port St. Denis and St. 
Martin, the principal revolutionary quarter of the city, 
a strange scene was presented. Men, women and chil- 
dren were in the cafes, or at tables on the wide side- 
walks, as if no wave of incoming revolution rolled in 
the street before them. In the middle of the street, or 
rather boulevard, were thousands upon thousands, in 
groups, differing in number and passions, listening to 
the extemporaneous harangue of any one, who by design 
or accident might collect a crowd. It was the night 
after our railway travelers reached the city. Crawford 
Carpenter took a courier, and went out to see and hear 
how a revolution is manufactured. After going some 
distance up the boulevard des Poissoniere, from group 
to group, they at last came to one that blocked up the 
whole street. Laroche whom he had met in the cars^ 
as we have seen, began to speak. 

^‘Citizens: The signal for deliverance has been 
sounded. The poor and the rich now face each other 
to try anew the contest of ages past, and determine upon 
new light whether the world is only for a few freemen 
and millions of slaves, or for millions of freemen and no 
slaves. The poor appeal to the history of all the past 
as proof that they have, in sublime patience, endeavored 


126 Judith Carson ; or. Which was the Heiress. 

to level society upward ; but the rich have kept us from 
having anything to lose by now levelling human condi- 
tions downwards. I would not underrate the power of 
money for good in some respects; if it feeds the poor, 
it is not to hush a sigh or wipe away the tear^ but only 
to blow out the incendiary’s torch and weaken the energy 
of despair. It is our master — it can buy armies, navies, 
courts, station. Place side by side the rich new-born 
babe of the Tuilleries and the poor new-born baby of 
Montmarte, with no money in sight, and where has 
nature made any difference ? One smiles as sweetly as 
the other ; the babe of the poor is as strong as the babe 
of the rich ; and what pulls one down in after life, and 
what lifts the other uj) ? Each has a head, a heart, and 
feet and hands. A demon comes between, and gives an 
artificial, crushing advantage to one over the other. It 
is not that money helps the one and does not injure the 
other. It is a direct and positive j)ower of evil on the poor. 
It enslaves him. It buys his brain, his muscle, his time. 
It masters the strongest. It corrupts him. Better be 
savages where manhood is superiority. A starving child 
must steal, and the strong man must rob. The maiden 
in rags is offered her price. Human nature is too weak 
in its necessities to stand the temptations which money 
ever makes. Where it is impossible to build up to an 
equality, let us, therefore, tear down to an equality.” 

Vive V Egalite ! ’ ' shouted the surging mass. Vive 
la Liherte ! ” 

^AYhat motive,” he continued, ‘^has the poor over 
the beast ? Toil he ever so long, he gains but a crumb 
in his mouth and a rag for his loins. His life is utterly 
without a motive above that of the beast, and his death 
without a hope. Like the horse, he must come and go 


The Revolutionists. 


127 


at another’s bidding. He must toil and sweat, and die 
and rot. No, citizens, let us have a motive — if we can- 
not live like men, let us die like heroes. These rich are 
no better than we ; but we are far stronger than they, if 
we chose to be. They see all relations and experiences 
in the sole light of their own interests. Prosperity has 
made them utterly insensible to the suffering and the 
rights of others. If we would make them see things as 
they are, we must take away from them that which causes 
them to see things as they are not. Eevolution is reve- 
lation. Let us, as they would in our place, tear down 
what it is not our interest should stand. The sceptre 
has been strong in the hands of the few ; let us make it 
stronger in the hands of the many. They tell us we are 
idle ; so are they. They tell us we drink ; so do they. 
They drink because they are happy. We drink because 
we are unhappy. They drink and lose nothing. We 
drink and lose all. Money is strong in itself ; but money 
■combined with money — incorporate — concentrated and 
soulless — is stronger than the mightiest monarch. N o 
one man can stand before it. Though the poor are 
powerless to compete, they are powerful to destroy. 
Combination of money begets combination of muscle. 
There is a point beyond which human nature will not 
submit and suffer. 

In confederated despair, the many people in their 
poverty are stronger than the few aristocrats are in their 
wealth. What is the basis of property ? Not force, for 
that is the robber’s title ; not inheritance, for that is a 
dead man’s gift ; not public service, for those serve the 
least who have the most ; but the property of the few is 
held by the permission of the many. Withdraw your 
permission, you who guard the rich. Disband, and 


128 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

leave the rich to defend the rich. The poor need na 
sentinels. Dissolve the courts that acquit the rich and 
convict the poor. Have equality or have death. Let 
no rich man sleep in his palace while poor men are 
awake, shelterless, in the streets. Let the fiction of 
property, like the teachings of religion, be forever 
exploded. As there is no future world for the soul, let 
us make the most of the present one for the body ; this 
be our creed of religion — this be our code of laws EgaU 
ite, Liherte, Fraternite, vive la Commune. Viva la Re-' 
puUique. ” 

These words of this dreadful disorganizer sank into 
the heated minds of this vast mob like rain-drops into 
the burning sand. 

A deep mqrmur arose : ’A has religion, has la pro^ 
priete. The speaker descended from the temporary trib- 
une, and like a meteoric stone plunging into an ocean 
seething in a storm, he was at once lost in the mass. 
This terrible agitator had held the mob in listening^ 
silence as he ejected, like lava from the red lips of the 
volcano, these words and ideas of implacable hate. 

Who is he came from hundreds of mouths. This 
vast multitude broke up into smaller groups, each 
expressing its own feelings and opinions, as might be the 
case, from the red hot republican to the earnest conser- 
vative. As yet the populace was patient at any differ- 
ence of opinion, judiciously presented. It was the hour 
of mere talk, when no one phase of thought or mould 
of temper was predominant. The bitter communist, the 
monarchist, and the mere rioter were assembled in an in- 
sane chatter, not knowing or caring what they should 
do. 

Above the general murmur of voices tliere rang out a 


The Revolutionists. 


129 


voice strong and earnest, ‘‘ I will employ every workman 
in Paris, if you will tell me where I can sell their work.” 
To this some were silent, not knowing what to say to 
such a proposition. Others, not caring what the remark 
was, but seeing in a general way that its trend was against 
their aims of passionate discontent, cried: has! a 

has ! — Down with him ! Down with him !” 

The same clear, stentorian voice again rose above the 
wave-like mutter of voices, and said : ‘‘If you have 
revolution there will be no sale for any work, and the 
poor will have blood instead of bread, and ultimate 
imprisonment and death for past freedom and life !” 

Again there came voices more indignant : “ « has ! 
a has! a has! — Down with him! Down with him !” 
at which there was an undecided sway and surge of the 
multitude towards the speaker. 

To one of these individual groups a workingman wak 
speaking with such earnestness as rapidly to increase the 
the number of his listeners into a throng. Other groups 
near by were deserted, and all interests in that immedi- 
ate locality seemed to concentrate in this particular one. 
Every one was eager to hear what so many others flocked 
to hear, and soon all other crowds rapidly dissolved, and 
a great mass was moving together, with ears intent upon 
the words of a new speaker. He had been borne along 
to the temporary platform so recently occupied by the 
Anarchist, and all were hushed to hear the plan or ideas 
of the new oracle. 

“ Citizens : I am a poor artisan, and have my shop and 
home in the Palais Royale. It was rash in me to have 
spoken so loud to a few friends around me, when the last 
speaker concluded, as to attract attention to my poor 
words and humble thoughts. I am no orator. By toil 
I earn my daily bread, and feed my little family. 



130 Judith Carson ; or Which tvas the Heiress. 

Why should those who will not work, take bread 
from us who will. I know the man well who has just 
spoken. Without love for the poor, he envies the rich. 
His object in socialism is gain for himself, not helj) for 
others. He is a talking theorist, an adventurous agita- 
tor, a professional destructive, who will not work, and 
would plunge us who will into a ruinous revolution. If 
any of us that really want work, do not get it, it is no 
fault of the rich. Terrible for us would be the day when 
there should be no rich people. Their wants are our 
market, and their incomes are daily distributed to us. 
Trom the luxuries of the rich come the necessaries of 
the poor. Only the rich buy what we make. In my 
sight are Messrs, les Citoyens Gustave Dore and Edouard 
Frere ’’ — vive les Citoyens !” — shouted the crowd. 

Who but the rich can buy their great works? Who 
but the rich can buy the fine laces made by our thous- 
ands of poor daughters? Who but the rich can buy your 
sevres, your vertu, your carriages, and plate ware made 
by our millions of industrious sons? If these bad men 
lead us, what would keep up our shops in the Palais 
Royal&y on the Rue de Rivoli, or the Rue de la Paix ? 

No, no, my fellow workmen, those who seek to 
array one class of oitizens against another, are friends of 
neither. They are not workmen, and would not work 
if they themselves named the wages. They are unwise 
advisers and have nothing to offer us. Workmen are 
not destructive. Never. Never. If we must take 
sides, let it be with our rich customers, and not with 
these social agitators. In the name of all artisans, I 
implore you to spare our trade, spare our goods, leave 
us the hope of bread. Every blow you strike the rich, 
falls heaviest on us. Poverty and riches are the fibres 


The Revolutionists. 


131 


that make up the one fabric of society; and the destruc- 
tion of one is the destruction of both. 

They tell us that the rich have haughty and over- 
bearing manners; but manners beget manners. It is 
human nature to exhibit rudeness to the rude and 
politeness to the polite. But is trade to be broken up 
and society convulsed, and the poor crushed under a 
remediless poverty, simply upon a question of manners? 
Is no one polite but the poor? Let not all the poor 
throw away their bread because some of the rich do not 
bow. We always get that which we give. Others are 
to us what we are to them. 

Capital is timid, and goes where it is safest. Public 
disorders drive it away, stop business, lower wages, and 
aggravate the troubles of the poor. An emeute to-night 
would deprive thousands of a breakfast to-morrow. 
Eevolutions may correct some wrongs, but they destroy 
many more rights. If you drive the rich away, the 
poor must go with them or starve where they are. But 
who are the rich and who are the poor thus arrayed 
against each other? If they are the capitalist and his 
workmen, riots would be a quarrel between the hungry 
man and his bread. Those who growl are the hags and 
fiends from the ForU Noire or the Boulevard des Crimes. 
The real workmen must perish if these prevail. If the 
rich suffer the poor suffer with them. A blow on the 
head paralyses the foot. However hard our lot may be, 
it may be made harder by disorder. All revolution is 
treason that does not bring us trade. There is a reform 
that is ruin. Industry is not so. All have a little laid 
up for old age. To break up society indeed robs the 
rich of much, but it robs the poor of their all. The 
rich can lose of their abundance, and still have some- 


132 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

thiDg. We, the poor, lose of our little, and revolu- 
tion leaves us nothing. Revolution is not for tlie good 
of the poor artisan, but for the idle and desperate ad- 
venturer.’’* 

The speech that followed was quite different in tone. 
The same nameless American gentleman we have men- 
tioned before said among other radical things, ^^to ex- 
tirpate poverty, to make wages what justice demands 
they should be, the full earnings of the laborer, we must 
therefore substitute for the individual ownership of land 

* ‘ ‘ The three and a quarter billion of debt of Great Britain is 
nearly all held by Englishmen, and the annual interest payment 
of $130,000,000 is nearly all paid into the hands of English farm- 
ers,. gentlemen, retired merchants, mechanics and workingmen 
and women to the extent of their savings for investment. The 
same law obtains in France even to a greater extent. Five years 
ago, w^hen the French government issued a loan for $1,000,000,000 
to pay olf the first installments of the German indemity debt, giv- 
ing Frenchmen the first chance to subscribe, in three days they 
had offers to the amount of eight thousand millions! Whence 
came the money? It was the savings of six million small land 
owners and other millions of mechanics and small dealers, who 
had it stowed away in stocking-legs— -the accretions of long years 
of toil and frugality — a few hundred francs from each.” The 
American workingman has the power of providing for his own 
well-being, and there is no just ground of controversy between 
him and the capitalist. Labor is worth no more than it will bring 
in the market, and laboring men as a class would have no difficulty 
in living comfortably if they -would be industrious and economical. 
It is estimated that the amount annually spent in the United States 
for intoxicating drinks is $900,000,000, of which sum $300,000,000 
is spent by the improvident class, who number 3,000,000 men, or 
$100 each on an average. These are the men wUo complain of the 
tyranny of capital; the provident men are themselves little capi- 
talists and admire the men who, by economy, industry and capa- 
city, have acquired wealth.” 


The Revolutionists. 


133 


a common ownership — in nothing else is there the 
slightest hope. We must make land common property. 

A murmur of surprise indefinitely approving or disap- 
proving hummed through the crowd; but when he said 
that they must abolish all taxation, save that upon land 
values, a country farmer, having been detained in the 
city over night by the sales of his produce, denounced 
aloud such a monstrous proposition. He broke out with 
impetuous indignation: You propose,’’ said he, ^^not 
only to change private property in land into public 
property — to take from us our all — but to exempt 
hankers, merchants, and bondholders, from all financial 
burdens. We farmers can bear no more taxation. From 
our millions of small farms will come millions to put 
you down. 

Your theory proposes to destroy us by taxing us out 
of our farms, and to make us farmers, who have the 
least wealth, bear the greatest burthen. Your scheme 
may suit you of the city, but we will have none of it in 
the country.” has la commune!^'* 

This was the lighted match in the sur-charged maga- 
zine. The enraged masses could not tolerate such de- 
fiant opposition. They rushed upon the farmer. All 
attempt to rescue him was useless. A tumult arose 
that instantly broke from all control. The revolution 
had begun. 

This peasant and all the peasants, saw how destruc- 
tively earnest these revolutionary communists were, when 
a few weeks after, they received notice that titles to all 
private property in laud were abolished, and that 
farmers must report to the bureau of lands, and pay 
their annual rent; and, to enforce communistic acquiesT 
cence, that none but a communist would be retained as 
public tenants. 


134 Judith Carson ; or, Which, was the Heiress. 

It is easy to begin a revolution, but hard to stop one. 
The pebble descending from the top of the mountain 
swells to an overwhelming avalanche at the bottom. 

Popular fanaticism, of any sort, must be promptly 
suppressed, if any attempt be made to suppress it at alL 
A mob inflames itself, acquires confidence, shapes its; 
plans, and finds a leader, if time and license be given it. 
The contagion of fury spreads; and, as genuine an in- 
sanity as ever horrified a madhouse, becomes a raging: 
epidemic. It cannot stop, but must exhaust itself. It 
does not pretend to reason, and will not hear it. Like' 
storm-driven waves, that must dash and break them- 
selves upon the beach and the rocks at the shore, sa 
moves the madness of a revolution. It must be stopped 
at the outset, or never. This was not done. The 
Prussian was gone, but the Parisians themselves arose as 
suicidal fiends, to complete the ruin spared them by 
their terrible masters. The Prussians had come in as 
conquerers, but they did not go out as vandals. When 
they turned their backs upon the city at their mercy, 
the Tuilleries still stood in its long line of architectural 
splendor, the Hotel de Ville was still its pride, the- 
column Vendome was still the monument of him wha 
had once conquered the German. They returned to- 
their suburban camps so oppressed with their sublime- 
triumphs as to forget or disdain to destroy. But Paris- 
ian madness was equal to the carnival of fire and blood. 

^lor is the cause of this obscure. France, that is to 
say, Paris, has a civilization without a religious or moral 
basis. The Koman Church is powerless. The people 
of all classes reverence nothing. In the Rue St. Honore 
there is a shop named ‘^The Infant Jesus.” Another 
in the Rue St. Jacques is called ‘‘The Sacrifice of Abra- 


The Revolutionists. 


135 


ham.” AVritings of broad humor are hung on the gates 
of cemeteries. The Sabbath is a day of amusement; the 
whole culture of the people is brilliant, sensuous, and 
irreligious. The Parisian sacrifices reverence to wit. 
He is never serious. Upon the stage, which is a most 
captivating teacher, the most sacred subjects are traves- 
tied. They dramatized The Fall of Man,” and made 
a jest of the whole sacred narrative. They said “La 
propriete c’est un voV^ (Property is a Robbery). 

It was a title full of mischievous anarchy. It sug- 
gested a most destructive political philosophy. And 
thus it was that Parisian character tended to develop it- 
self on the side of license, wit, gaiety and human weak- 
nesses. 

It was not a discipline, but an entertainment. Fan- 
cying that death was an eternal sleep, it made people 
desperate or indulgent in life. 

Parisian thought had in it nothing for the future. It 
was thoroughly epicurean — materialistic, without moral 
or religious sanction, and pandered to every human pas- 
sion. It is a prevision of the future — an awe of the su- 
pernal — the sacredness of moral obligations — the sensi- 
bilities awakened and fostered by religious worship, that 
promise social stability and conservatism. Human ac- 
tion has its best movements not on the intellectual, the 
polite, the moral, but on the religious side of our nature. 
Where there is the least of religion there is the most of 
despotism and degradation. 

Paris was a most mournful illustration of this. Every- 
thing was for the present; reverencing nothing in the 
world, looking forward to nothing beyond it, intensely 
impressed by human opinion, greedy for dramatic catas- 
trophy, wearied when not under present excitement, the 


136 Judith Carson; or, Which luas the Heiress. 

Parisian character needed, above all others, the religious 
conservatism of England, of which it had the least. 

There is nothing serious or safe in a philosophy of the 
mere Present. It is the projected shadow of the Future 
that awes into wisdom. 

And so, Paris, lounging in the Cafes, laughing at the 
irreverent Vaudeville, or plotting at the barracks, could 
not resist itself, but plunged into a revolution, which, 
indeed, was only an exaggeration of its common life. 

Without the grave restraint of faith, Paris, as any 
other city of dense population would be, is, nay, has 
been, at all time, the gay side of a revolution. That of 
1871 was but an expansion and intensification of the 
normal temper of its sensitive, dramatic, frivolous pop- 
ulation. 

And now passions and events move rapidly on to re- 
sults. The next day after the popular assemblies and 
speeches we have mentioned, was marked by frequent 
proclamations of the rising factions. The rappell of 
various, and afterwards conflicting bodies, would be 
sounded on the same square; but gradually Bellville and 
Montmarte became the localities of the violent revolu- 
tionists; and the heart of the city, especially about the 
Madeliene, was the centre of those disposed to stand by 
M. Thiers and his administration. By the third day the 
extreme revolutionists had parked artillery in the Place 
Vendome, with a cordon of sentinels both at the Rue de 
la Paix and the Rue Castiliogne. This was a move of 
aggression and defiance. The time for speech making 
was past. The malevolent passions were in the ascend- 
ant. 

In order to encourage and draw out a moral expression 
of peaceable feeling, several thousand law-abiding citi- 


V 


The Revolutionists. 


137 


zens, with peaceful banners, and headed by eminent men, 
marched through the principal streets. 

These, as they attempted to pass through the Place 
Vendome, were fired upon by this commune encamp- 
ment, and eight or ten instantly killed. 

From this moment terror reigned. No one was safe 
on the streets. An armed mob had possession of the 
city. The Garde Nationale le dentoire was divided. 
Some battalions were composed of clerks and the better 
class of artisans, such as those who frequent Palais 
Eoyal; and other battalions included the rough elements 
of the suburbs of Montmarte. These latter were turbu- 
lent and destructive. They had neither property, in- 
dustry, nor reason. Eevolution was their element. It 
was bold, defiant and desperate. Its very aggressiveness 
was an appearance of strength and triumph, and thou- 
sands of the timid drifted into it for safety. Its auda- 
city was marvellous. It was contemptible to see the 
battalions of well-dressed clerks and shopmen throw up 
the butts of their muskets and give way before the bat- 
talions of bullies impudently marching into and holding 
the streets. Thousands of lives and millions of property 
were sacrificed to this cowardice of the better class, 
which at first was largely in the majority. The insur- 
gents exhibited no courage or hope until they saw that 
the chicken-hearted habitues of the Rue de Rivoli and 
the Boulevard de Italiens would not fight. Then they 
were like savages. They built barricades across all the 
great thoroughfares, even under the very windows of the 
Hotel de Ville. 

But it was not until the troops from Versailles 
approached the city that madness in its utmost inten- 
sity fired the breasts of these infuriated demons. 


138 Judith Carson; or. Which was the Heiress. 

As usual, in Paris, the women of this low element 
were more fiendish, if possible, than the men. Armed 
with all sensitive combustibles, they hurried, in gangs, 
from palace to palace, to prepare the match and apply 
the torch. Now and then some one of the better class, 
urged by some irresistible necessity of hunger, or care 
for others, ventured into the chaotic streets, with the 
almost certain fate or finding themselves either trampled 
by the hurrying troops, or by the fiight of panic- stricken 
people, running from some vague peril. It is probable 
that such may be the fate of one, at least, if not more, 
of the personages in whom the reader is interested. 


CHAPTEE XV. 


THE PRISONER. 

After his recovery, and at the beginning of the events 
we are about to describe, George Parram arrived in 
Paris from the south, and Herman Laroche — the traveler 
in the railway car just mentioned — the communistic 
leader, the robber of the Countess and Parram, the hus- 
band of Ina, arrived in Paris from the west. 

In Paris, events move with astonishing rapidity, and 
catastrophes are surprisingly sudden. With the French 
it could not be otherwise. Their mercurial impatience 
would weary at any slow results. The German is per- 
sistent, but patient ; the English slow and cautious ? 
the French full of elan, and what the Frenchman fails 
to do upon the attempt, he will abandon. The revolu- 
tion of 1870 was as foolish as it was sudden. It was a 
big impulse, and most destructive and bloody ; but — 
Parisian. It was just the occasion for Laroche. It mat- 
tered not to the populace whether a leader had been a 
criminal or a saint, so long as he led as the people wanted 
to be led. Judith, for days and days, saw the storm 
brewing — she saw the worst elements of Bellville and 
Montmarte gradually concentrating in body and pur- 
pose ; and that the city must be filled with violence. 
But there was to her in all this a fascination. She had 
lived morbidly on excitement, and she felt safe from Par- 
ram behind those waves of revolution. Her child was 
safe within convent walls — for the republican French- 
man may despoil palaces, but not asylums. For herself. 


140 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

she was attracted by the very danger which she thought 
Parram would shun. 

How little we know of the reasons upon which other 
people act 1 George Parram had a motive to plunge into 
the wildest excitement, if not danger, which motive she 
neither knew nor could have imagined. The revolution 
of Paris, if there was to be one, was of all places the 
one where he would prefer to be. A hell within is in 
sympathy with a hell without. A mind disturbed seeks 
events, but no companionship ; it wishes to be alone in 
a crowd. Eather the thunder than the voice of its own 
soul. 

When Judith saw that the danger had become immi- 
nent, it was by no means certain that she could escape 
from the city, even if she wished to escape. In some 
cases the attempt to escape had been successful, and in 
some it had not been. The difficulties with which some 
had met, and the arrest of others, made her hesitate 
until it was too late to think of it. When she saw her- 
self closed in the city, and the running of the trains cut 
off, she caught the contagious excitement, and could not 
keep from the streets, or out of evident danger. No 
one could hardly appear outside of his own doors with- 
out being enveloped in the rush of panics. One set of 
regiments of the garde Nationale was composed of the 
clerks, merchants and professional men, and another set 
of regiments was made up of the coarser elements of the 
suburbs and of the insurrectionary quarters. These all 
had arms, and were called together by the rappel, and 
remained under arms according to exigency. Eevolu- 
tionary committees extemporized themselves in every 
centre. Bulletins were issued by self-constituted com- 
mittees of safety, from hour to hour. Everybody read 


The Prisoner, 


141 


everything, until the whole city was in a ferment. 
Bodies of soldiers representing the countless phases of 
opinion of the communists, marched up and down the 
streets, sometimes meeting or crossing each other’s path, 
just avoiding a conflict ; and there was not an hour of 
the day when some new excitement did not blaze up, 
and again subside. Everywhere were the ebb and flow 
of revolutionary chaos, anxiety and alarm. No one felt 
safe. Small groups were gradually formed into larger 
ones. Leaders of the greatest audacity grew stronger 
and stronger, naturally attracting the timid and the 
weak. Barricades were hurried up according to the 
whim or fear of almost any who might propose to build 
one. 

The barricade is the bulwark of a Paris mob. If a 
few street gamins or fish women fancied that soldiers 
might possibly be sent into their street, they barricaded 
the approaches by piling up paving stones, boxes, wagons, 
or anything that would interpose a barrier to the charge 
of cavalry or the effective handling of infantry, or 
behind which the people might be shielded from bullets. 
They were built across bridges, narrow streets, or any 
other passway, which, by any possibility, could be used 
by the police or the military. What with the constant 
beating of the rappel, the marchings of squads of sol- 
diers, the closing of stores, the occasional flight of peo- 
ple in the streets, at some real or fancied danger, the 
city was, for days, a scene of wild terror. 

This was the time most congenial to Hermann Laroche. 
His unscrupulous ambition and vicious will, his hope to 
profit by any public change, and draw to himself power 
as the masses lost it, and to lead the storm by the very 
relentlessness of his purpose, qualified him for havoc 


142 Judith Carson j or. Which was the Heiress. 

and bloodshed. He had no military talent, nor any 
political experience or wisdom ; and he was only a petty 
chief of an insane mob. With more expansion of nat- 
ure and of ideas, he might have risen to prominence. 
But as it was, he was one of those assuming and usurp- 
ing scoundrels that reign only until general danger 
brings out the great leader to crush the smaller aspi- 
rants, and give to popular passion unity, plan and reso- 
lution. It was in this transition state between the 
incipient revolution of a city possessed and terrorized 
over by a mob and by bold robbers, that Hermann 
Laroche was in power. One day as Judith was turning 
from the Rue de Rivoli into the Place de H Hotel de 
Ville, on her way across the Pont d^ Arcole to Notre 
Dame, an alarm was made that troops were moving upon 
that point, and would fire upon everybody before it. 
The joanic was general and terrible. Men, women and 
children rushed in every direction, sweeping everybody 
before them, whom they could bear down by superior 
numbers, and forces. Scores were trampled and bruised 
most fearfully. The only resource was to fall in with 
the current and move with it, instead of against it. In 
such a current Judith was caught as people fied in resist- 
less fright before a body of irregular troops that were 
sent to capture the doors of the Hotel de Yille, and 
imprison the committee there in session. The only place 
of refuge for the terror-stricken people was in the open 
gates, and in the inner court of the Hotel de Ville itself. 
Once in there, the soldiery soon closed the gates and 
made prisoners of both the populace who had been 
driven in for safety, and the first revolutionary com- 
mittee there in session. This committee was totally 
surprised at being thus suddenly taken by another com- 


The Prisoner, 


143 


mittee, making a bold dash for supremacy. In behalf 
of this triumphant body, who should present himself as 
Prefect with sole authority but Hermann Laroche. He 
passed through the guard stationed at the gate and in 
the public space in front, and made formal prisoners of 
all within. The captured committee were hurried off 
to the barracks at Montmarte, and the citizens allowed 
to pass him for his selection of those to be detained, and 
those to be discharged. Judith came forward, expect- 
ing to be dismissed as a non-combatant • when, to her 
overwhelming astonishment, he said : 

Madame, for the present, you are to be imprisonea 
in the Conciergerie. The mistress of Ina Schonte and 
the wife of an American must not be on these streets. 
This file of soldiers will conduct you to your retreat 
and he turned abruptly away under the maddening pres- 
sure of the fierce duties of the moment. 

Before she had time to question him, or learn more of 
her destiny, she found herself under the polite but sol- 
dierly urgency of her guard at the gate, walking in 
silent and utter amazement to a prison. 

The Conciergerie adjoins the Palais de Justice so near 
by to the Hotel de Ville, that Judith, overwhelmed by 
what had taken place, and amazed at the strange man 
who seemed to know her so well, was at the gates of the 
Conciergerie across the Seine and behind bars and bolts 
before she could recover from her bewilderment. The 
coup de main had been so successfully accomplished, and 
the streets had been so suddenly cleared, that there was 
scarcely a witness on the streets of her destination. 
Arrests of all ages, classes and of both sexes, were then 
becoming too common to excite remark. And now, what? 

Who she was, and of what was she accused, no one 
asked. 


144 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress, 

She was a prisoner, and was brought there by soldiers,, 
and the keeper expected some one, after awhile, to 
explain her arrest. From her appearance, he saw that 
she was of the better class, and though hardened against 
yielding to any sentiments of gallantry, and especially 
towards one of the upper classes, when he heard lier say 
that she was an American, and would in due time have 
her rights respected as such, he assured her that, thougk 
he could not settle any questions of personal or national 
injury, he would give her every privilege consistent with 
his duty, until her claim could be investigated. A 
warder then conducted her into a vestibule divided into 
two aisles by a row of columns supporting pointed arches, 
once the guard-room of Louis IX. Thence she was 
taken to one of its one hundred cells, j)assing the door 
to the sacristy of the chapel, which had once been the 
prison of Marie Antoinette. 

French prisons are dreadful successes as prisons. 
They have the aspect of medieval fortresses, constructed 
for the confinement and punishment of political offend- 
ers, and designed to resist the warlike assaults of that 
age. Prisons now need be strong enough to resist only 
the sudden attack of mobs. Confinement need not be 
cruel. 

A Parisian prison must be visited to understand how, 
since the first revolution, prison architecture and con- 
struction have been improved. They are built upon the 
well-known cellular system. It would be impossible to 
give anything like an idea of it here. Each cell has a 
bed, gas-burner, a signal, conveniences of every kind, 
table, printing materials, and books by permission. Like 
any other prisoner, Judith was assigned a cell and locked 
behind bars. 


OHAPTEK XYI. 


THE ESCAPE, 


I’ll have her, hut — ” 

We must now remember that when Crawford Carpen- 
ter was in London, and saw the Parisian revolution 
approaching, which we have described, he determined 
to run over to the Continent, hunt up Parram, and get 
him to assist in unraveling the forgeries discovered in 
the matters under his care, to which we have alluded, 
and to help ferret out the forger. 

He arrived in Paris, as we have seen, just before the 
panic which resulted in throwing Judith behind the bars 
of the Conciergerie, and at the inauguration of Hermann 
Laroche to almost Tribunitial authority. 

The intentions of Crawford Carpenter was only to pass 
through Paris to Brussels, where Parram had last been 
heard from, find him, and with Parram would hasten 
back to London, and then on to America. 

But surprises ever attended upon human action. Men 
may know what they intend, but not what they may 
intend, but not what they may be permitted to do. So 
Crawford Carpenter found it. 

Commune power so rapidly centralized and organized 
itself, that it took possession of the city before the auth- 
orities, with Thiers at their head, were prepared to move 
against them from Versailles. 

It was easy to get into the city, but not easy to get 
out. 

In the uncertainty as to whether persons seeking to 


145 



146 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress, 

depart were spies or strangers, the leaders of the insur- 
rection gave orders that the gates of the city be closed 
against all egress. 

This made unwilling prisoners of more persons than 
Judith. 

Sometimes that which seems most to defeat well laid 
plans is the shortest way to their execution. 

Crawford Carpenter found himself unexpectedly shut 
up in a city with besieging lines, closing rapidly around 
it, and with a remorselessly centralized despotism within, 
that respected no will but its own, and that had no 
acquaintance with foreign powers, and especially with 
the one which could protect his rights — if there be 
any rights in a revolution. 

He saw that he was held in the unreasoning grasp of 
circumstances to which resistance would be useless, and 
from which no appeal could be made. He therefore 
stood still until some authority should exist with which 
he could deal. 

In the meantime, he was of no more importance to the 
' frenzy of Parisian and communistic chaos than if the 
shadow of the American flag had never glorified his 
form. 

The mob-government, like all political madness, knew 
no nationalities, respected no persons, and recognized no 
responsibilities. 

Utterly remediless, Crawford Carpenter, like a wise 
man, made the best of his situation. But one cannot 
always stay in doors, or be always prudent. We can 
remain on the watch for awhile, but caution goes to sleep 
like the gods, and we get into trouble in a moment, 
though we may have kept out of it for weeks. Besides, 
familiarity with chaos reveals to us a sort of order of its 


The Escape. 147 

own; and we fear it less, though we may know its dan- 
gers more. 

Under the complex influence of such motives, Craw- 
ford Carpenter, one day, stepped out of his hotel to look 
around and see for himself the condition of affairs, when 
a squad of military guard, acting as a sort of armed po- 
lice, was passing under the immediate orders of Hermann 
Laroche. 

With a surprise no less than if not surpassing that of 
Judith at her detention, Laroche ordered his arrest and 
hurried him off to prison to await developements. For 
Laroche’s own convenience, and also because it was near 
hy, as in the case of Judith, he was hurried at once to 
the Conciergerie, and, like Judith, placed under lock 
and behind grates. 

As communication between cells and prisoners was 
not at all permitted, there was no likelihood that Judith 
and Crawford would meet; even if they did, they would 
not know each other. 

The threads ot the game were now fast getting into 
the hands of Laroche. He knew much of them, as he 
thought, but they knew nothing of him. 

Like all the knowledge of the ^^ins and outs” of 
society and individuals which detectives pick up, and 
upon which they act as if it were complete, his informa- 
tion was wanting in many circumstances connected with 
those with whom he was dealing. He knew who Craw- 
ford Carpenter was, whence he came, and what his busi- 
ness. He knew what Crawford did not know — where 
Parram could be found — for he had Parram too, or could 
have him at any moment. 

Laroche had been to America, and he had seen Craw- 
ford on the streets, in the court house, and in his office. 


148 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

The reader will remember that Parram had Laroche’s 
child in his house, thinking it to be his own. 

Ina, the wife of Laroche, was Parram’s resident nurse. 
He knew Parram’s secrets; and was, more or less, his 
confidant; and could well understand why Parram should 
desire to be near him, rising in authority as he was, and 
able to shelter him. He knew more of Parram than 
Parram knew of him. 

How impossible it was for Judith to foresee all the 
consequences of palming upon her husband as his, the 
child of Ina and Laroche. 

From that day Laroche became her shadow, and the 
shadow of Ina. He knew but in part, but the part he 
did know inspired his pursuit, and explained his motives. 

He did not indeed want the custody and trouble of 
his child, but he kept himself well advised as to where 
the mothers were at all times, without having any defi- 
nite ideas as to the use he might make of the situation. 

He arrested Carpenter because he might have a uso 
for him; chance only anticipated his capture of Judith. 

Parram was at his mercy, and all just then that was 
not in his hands, was Judith’s child, or his, as Ina had 
declared it was. His most persistent searches could not 
discover her; but the mother might be communicative, 
after a residence of some weeks at the Conciergerie; 
especially if her residence was not of the most pleasant 
nature. 

The reader can now understand why he cared to know 
anything about the child, that was in fact Judith's; and 
how he was puzzled to understand why Judith should 
care for a child that he supposed she must know was 
not hers. 

The fact was, that the two mothers and the gossips at 


The Escape. 


149 


tlie Tillage where the children were born, had each her 
own story. The gossips said that Ina gave birth to 
twins, and that Judith’s child died. 

If this story were true, both children, if alive, were 
Laroche’s. 

When he tracked Ina to America, and to her surprise 
presented himself and demanded their child, which he 
did out of pure villainy, for he neither wanted the child, 
nor in his predatory life could he have taken care of it, 
she retaliated on Judith, her own trick, in order that 
she might keep her child, then so well cared for in tlie 
house, and the prospective heiress of the rich George 
Parram, apart from any peculiar interest she and Parram 
might have in each other. 

She told her husband that the child she then had the 
care of was indeed Judith and George Parram’s, and 
that she had abandoned his child to J udith. 

The story of his wife was corroborated by the peculiar 
fact, that while Judith had indeed provided for the 
child, she had never been much near it; not understand- 
ing that to place herself at some distance from her child 
was the cunning of the mother to divert attention from 
the child to herself. 

It was difficult for Laroche in the face of the positive 
assertion of his wife, that his child was with Judith, to 
discredit it, by speculating upon the improbability of 
.any such arrangement. 

For Ina to abandon her own child to Judith and take 
Judith’s child in its place, did not seem natural or likely; 
and if that did take place, Ina must have been controlled 
by some passion stronger than the maternal one, and so 
must Judith. 

The reader will remember that Ina, when she and 


150 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress, 

Judith were discovered and G-eorge Parram seized his 
child, was at most to take the child to America for 
Parram; but that she could be content to remain in his 
house, and finally abandon her child to Judith, if that 
were the case, was a puzzle Laroche could not unravel. 

Could she have fallen in love with the rich and divorced 
Parram, and by living in his house, could she hope to- 
secure his favor — or what power was it that could make 
her act apparently so unnaturally? 

Laroche could never satisfy himself exactly which 
child was his, though he was generally inclined to believe 
that both were. It occurred to him, too, that he had 
only Ina’s statement about the whole matter. 

So he left the children as they were, especially as he 
did not seriously want either. He was only anxious to 
clear up a mystery, and concluded that the time would 
come when he would meet with Judith and learn her 
version. In the meantime, he would quietly await the 
solution. 

The time for Judith’s explanation had come, when she 
heard the gates of the Oonciergerie close upon her, and 
Laroche saw himself her jailor. 

He would now clear up an entangled history, and 
learn all he was curious to know. His interest in it 
was more dramatic than paternal — he simply wanted to 
learn the fact, and see what use he could make of it. 

So, one day, just after dusk, there being a little lull 
in the movements of the revolution, Laroche took a boat 
down the Seine to the Oonciergerie, summoned Judith 
to the office near the door, and, dismissing the warder, 
said : 

Madam, I have come to inquire as to your health 
and treatment.” 


The Escape. 


151 


^^And having satified yourself as to these, then what? ’’ 
inquired Judith. 

*'Are you very anxious to know?’’ replied Laroche, 
am now not anxious about anything scarcely,” she 
answered. 

‘‘Scarcely is well put in,” he said. “Under that 
‘ scarcely ’ may hide one great or many little secrets — 
even the whereabouts of a child. ” 

Judith looked searchingly into his face to divine his 
meaning, and then inquired, “Whose child?” 

“ My child,” he replied. 

“ Your child ! Who are you ? ” 

“ Excuse me, Madame, for not having more formally 
introduced myself. I am Hermann Laroche, the hus- 
band of Ina Schonte, the foster mother of your child, 
now in America, in the establishment of one George 
Parram, who was or is your husband, and like you, is 
now my prisoner, or can be at any moment.” 

“But what,” she inquired, astonished by his abrupt 
and succinct introduction of himself, “what have I to 
do with your child! ” 

“You have had much to do with it for these fifteen 
or more years,” he replied. “You have not been aware 
of it, but you have never made a move during that time 
that was not fully known to me. Every place has been 
home to me; and to follow you and keep advised of your 
movements, became one of the things to be done as a 
past-time business of life, having just enough mystery 
and romance in it to make it interesting. It gave me 
no especial trouble, and so it has been done. Let me 
show you how candid I am with you. You have lived 
much in England, also no little time in Florence, some 
little at Prague, Dresden, Berlin, Venice and Eome. 



152 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

You remember, in the Tribune of the Ufizzi at Florence, 
two gentlemen entering, and how you retreated before 
them and disappeared through the door opening into 
the corridor crossing the Arno on the bridge, and con- 
necting the Ufizzi and Pitti galleries? Your husband 
was one of those gentlemen, and one of my police con- 
federates was the other. We were in the pursuit of a 
matter, and it was convenient for my associate to travel 
with your husband. It is unnecessary to remind you of 
what detained you in Florence; or why you and I are 
here. Ina told me in America when she consented to 
take your child to its father’s home, that you, as a com- 
pensating kindness, undertook to take care of her child 
until she returned — that circumstances had detained 
her in the New World, and that you had been true to 
your promise, and had provided for my child here — 
now where is that child ? ” 

This was an astounding turn that affairs were taking. 
Judith thought that Ina, in order to keep her own child 
with her, and defeat the demand of her husband, had 
retorted upon her her own device; and, that if Laroche 
believed his wife, he would claim her child as his and 
Ilia’s. 

He was some way in power, and was no man to be 
trifled with. 

Now her perplexity was, if she contradicted Ina and 
told Laroche the truth, that, while she might escape 
from him, she would expose the facts and be at the 
mercy of Parram. 

As said before, Judith had lived so alone that it did 
not occur to her that her child was old enough to choose 
her own guardian; and that Parram, her father, could 
not have taken her from her mother without the child’s 
consent. 


153 


The Escape, 

She knew of no change in his (Parram’s) affairs, hav- 
ing been such a timid and morbid recluse, with the one 
maternal passion so monopolizing her thoughts and con- 
trolling her life. 

She was now stepping utterly in the dark. She knew 
not what to answer, and Laroche, seeing her reluctance, 
construing it into a corroboration of the statement of 
Ina, continued : 

^‘You see that I have a right to know where my 
child is.” 

“You must ask your wife that question,” replied 
Judith. 

“And she,” said Laroche, “told me to ask you.” 

The whole turn seemed so absurd to Judith, that at 
first she could not understand how it could be in earnest; 
but as Ina’s positive statement, so cunningly made, 
seemed to have weight in the mind of Laroche, more 
than all theories of its improbability, she felt that she 
must treat it as a serious conviction in his mind, and 
act accordingly. 

Just then a messenger came to Laroche, calling him 
instantly to the rooms of the committee, and he hastened 
away, saying, “Madam, I will call again for your 
answer. Do not think to deceive me.” 

In what a bewilderment of thought this interview 
with Laroche left Judith? 

So it seemed that her movements had been always 
Lnown to this one man; that when, after his interview 
with Ina, he, in a manner, settled down into the belief 
that Judith really had his child, he had kept his mind 
on her and her movements; all of which Judith now 
learned for the first time. 

Her trouble now was to save her child from the grasp 
of Laroche, and not fall into the hands of Parram. 


154 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress, 

If she had known the present state of her husband’s 
fortunes, and how precarious were those of Laroche, or 
how independent before the law was her child, she would 
have seen that she had nothing to fear from either. 
How blindly we all act. 

We know but in part.” 

We are so ignorant of secret histories and the fickle- 
ness and complexity of motives, that we can never be 
certain that we understand ourselves or others. 

We indeed see as through a glass darkly. We cannot 
trust report. No man fully reports himself. 

We often do injustice to ourselves, and account for 
our actions by giving only one out of several reasons 
which were before our minds, and that reason, perhaps,, 
the very one which finally did not control our action. 

^^Know thyself” is not a warning of to-day. 

Judith thought herself and child in the entire power 
of Laroche. He believed that she had his child, and 
when his revolutionary work was over, he might and 
probably would see*k to make his supposed rights availa^ 
ble. So long as he was under his present impression, he 
would not enlighten Parram, wherever he might be. 
Laroche was, therefore, for the present, all her danger. 

His summons had been unexpected, and caused just a, 
flush of anxiety over his practical features. 

Nothing was sure from hour to hour. 

If the government had been firm or could have 
relied upon its troops at Versailles, the insurrection 
could have been suppressed at a breath. The authorities 
faltered, and faltering encouraged and developed the 
revolution. 

Laroche almost flew from the office to which he had 
summoned Judith, and where he had been conversing 


The Escape. 


155 


with her. The office was near the passage closed by a 
heayy grated door, at the head of which arched a stair- 
case leading to the Seine. This vaulted exit had been 
used often to convey away the dead bodies of the ouh- 
liettes, or victims of revolutions executed in prison and 
unannounced to the world. 

Laroche succeeded to the bloody heritage of Maillard, 
on whose desk lay the book of the names of his victims. 

As Judith entered in answer to his summons, she 
found him idly turning over the leaves of this volume, 
which she recognized as having seen when she had, as a 
tourist, visited this prison, and had these horrible treas- 
ures pointed out to her by the courier. 

She little thought, when, as a curious visitor, she had 
walked through the corridors in security and freedom, 
that she herself would ever be a prisoner there, or, with 
her life trembling on the caprice of a man destitute of 
principle or pity, that she could ever be anxious to 
know whether her name for execution had been put 
down in the book in which she had once seen the bloody 
stains from the fingers of former executioners. 

As a tourist, she had been shown the names of Eavaillac, 
Charlotte Corday, Robespierre, and Napoleon III. But, 
upon being suddenly summoned away, Laroche nervous- 
ly shut the book whose leaves he had been idly turning 
over during his conversation with Judith, and without 
thinking to call the warder to return Judith to her cell, 
rushed out into the passage, and down the arched stair- 
case to the Seine, where a boat awaited his return. 

He had availed himself of river conveyance, as it 
enabled him to reach directly the Hotel de Ville, the 
headquarters of the department. 

His present powers and duties were more than he was 
equal to, and he forgot to secure his way behind him. 


156 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

The warder was too much excited by the progress of 
the revolution to be very attentive to his duties, or to 
know exactly whom to obey. 

Cunning was too much for carelessness, and Judith 
seeing the haste and the occupied mind of Laroche to be 
too great to notice anything but the new phase which 
affairs had assumed, availed herself of the opportunity 
to follow Laroche, until she placed herself outside of 
the heavy iron-grated hut open door, at the head of the 
staircase, leading down, as we have said, to the river. 
As this was an unused way, there was no gendarme on 
duty there. 

Hiding herself behind a massive pier, where she was 
unobserved by any one within the prison, or any one 
likely to explore the vaulted steps to the water, she re- 
mained in breathless suspense to know the result, when 
the warder should come around again. When he came 
again and found Laroche gone, he was not surprised, 
there being so many such sudden arrivals and depart- 
ures in the crowded weeks of the new revolution; and 
he simply drew the heavy gate back, turned the ponder- 
ous key in the old rusty lock, and hurried in a nervous 
mechanical way round the wards to see that all was 
quiet. 

His mind was in the excitement of the revolution that 
was going on without. 

When Judith, from behind the pier, heard the key 
turn, and the sound of the retreating footsteps of the 
warder, she began, as well as the dim light strug- 
gling into the corrider would allow, to ascertain where 
she was and what was then possible to her. The only 
egress for her seemed to be the stairway to the river, 
and that was utterly impossible; for although when a 


157 


The Escai)e, 

child, she had been taught to swim by her father, and 
had kept in practice every summer at Newport and 
Long Branch, yet the idea of trusting herself to the 
flow of the river at night was too gloomy to be at- 
tempted, if she could help it. But her will in this 
respect was soon dispensed with, for the warder, passing 
her cell, and finding it vacant, was sufiiciently aroused 
to his duty, no matter who had authority, to look up 
his prisoner. She heard him unlocking the grated door 
in haste, and the sound of the many feet of his sum- 
moned assistants left no time to form plans. Impelled 
by the instinct of escape from her imprisonment, and 
urged by the hope thereby to foil Laroche in his delu- 
sion as to her child, she hastened down the steps leading 
to the river as we have described, not knowing what 
else to do, or what would come of that. This she did 
simply to do something to escape. Now, between the 
bottom step and the outside grated gate that was open 
in these days, as a private entrance for Laroche, there 
was space enough to contain a small row-boat, and the 
water was deep. Not knowing this, Judith hastened 
down the steps, hurried by the instincts so uncontrolable 
under these circumstances, and was soon precipitated 
into the river. Her downward flight had given her such 
an impetus that when she came to the surface, she found 
herself near the front wall against which the gates swung 
outward, so that when they were shut they would resist 
pressure from without rather than from within. To 
seize hold of the bars of this gate and hold herself up, 
was the work of a moment; but it fairly screened her 
from being seen by any one looking down from the steps, 
especially in the dark. Judith had become so accus- 
tomed to act promptly upon surprises, that as soon as 


158 Judith Carson ; or^ Which was the Heiress. 

she found herself safely holding to the gate thus back 
against the outside wall, and out of sight of any pur- 
suers, she determined to make no outcry for help, be- 
cause that would return her to prison, and she knew 
that almost every moment some passing boat would re- 
lieve her. Besides, she had entire confidence in being 
able to swim ashore. She was not disappointed, for it 
was not long before a boat containing one man, a sort of 
errand waterman, took her in, exclaiming: 

So, not to the morgue to-night. Perhaps your lover 
will come back to you. I have caught several of you 
mermaids, but not alive, like you, lately.” 

Judith seeing that the boatman held the impression 
that he had picked up another of the ^^poor unfortu- 
nate,” allowed her silence to confirm the impression. 

I must leave you at this wash-house, as I have a 
hurrying errand. Besides, you can here dry your clothes. 
Don’t Jump in this river again, or you may not find the 
water-gates of the Oonciergerie so conveniently swung 
out for you.” 

So saying, he pulled alongside one of those fioating 
wash-houses, so numerous up and down the Seine, and 
helping Judith upon the platform, was told ‘^to come 

to 'No. 10 Rue de ,” which he wrote in his pocket- 

book, ^^and he should be liberally rewarded.” 

Her desire to compensate the poor boatman, and hav- 
ing no purse in prison, led her, out of the best instincts 
of the human heart, to a possible betrayal of herself. 

This might have been a fatal piece of forgetfulness on 
her part, for it trusted the secret of her address to one 
who, in the strange turn which events sometimes make, 
might reveal her locality to Laroche, from whom she 
desired to be untraceably hid. Laroche was much on 


159 


The Escape. 

the river, passing back and forth from the Hotel de Ville 
to the Conciergerie, and using the water-steps as we have 
said, for his private convenience, and what with his 
natural chances that always seemed to fall to him, and 
his habit of making everybody his spy, it would not be 
remarkable if he came up with this waterman, and from 
him learned all about her mode of escape and her address. 

When Laroche had passed the special difficulty which 
so hurried him from his interview with Judith, he was 
astonished upon his return to the prison to find that 
his prey had escaped him again. How, no one could 
imagine. 

The warder was not over careful to express any theory, 
and the probable one would reflect*either upon the care- 
lessness of himself or of his revolutionary prefect. So 
he was ignorant and silent. 

Laroche bit his lip, but had such faith in his luck or 
sharpness to find again his game, that he shrugged his 
shoulders, as much as to say, let it pass for the present; 
and then asked the warder if the American gentleman, 
M. Carpenter, was secure. Being assured that he was, 
he then ordered him to be put in the topmost range of 
cells, with windows overlooking the Seine, but from 
which escape was impossible. He had not decided what 
use he had or might have for Crawford Carpenter, but 
he wished all the chances of the plot in his own hands. 
As the utter lawlessness of the commune, and his prom- 
inence in it gave him the chance to assume unlimited 
and unquestioned power, no one asking who invested 
him with it, he pushed it with confident and remorseless 
audacity, arresting, imprisoning, and robbing when he 
pleased. In the first days of an insurrection, like those 
of Paris, bold assumption is the title to authority. The 


160 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress, 

strong will of any one man, where all wills are weak or 
confused, all minds frightened, all order is broken down, 
is nature’s election of the ruler. In the despotism of 
Laroche, he had no more authority than that of one of 
a temporary mob. Legitimate authority had not recov- 
ered from its surprise, ascertained its strength, and 
decided upon its line of action. In the meantime his 
impudent usurpation was successful. In such an hour, 
the multitude obey any one who covers himself with the 
maj esty and mystery of authority. Anybody can lead who 
will, and it is the holiday of the desperate — of those 
whom nature just failed to endow with the great qualities 
of true leadership; but it ends. The reign of Laroche 
was soon to close; but he determined to show how much 
in a few days might be done by the energy of a destructive 
malice. As soon as the government at Versailles could 
ascertain the disposition of the regular army towards the 
Paris commune, and what were the sympathies of the 
Oarde Nationale Mobile, and of the Garde Nationalc 
Sedentaire or city militia, they moved promptly upon 
the communists everywhere, and invested the city. The 
decision of the government gave it strength, and its army 
rapidly increased in numbers. The law-abiding, the 
people of means, the industrial classes whose trade the 
revolution destroyed, the church, the public opinion of 
the nations of Europe — the fiendish temper of the 
wretches to whom circumstances and the irresolution of 
the authorities had given temporary power — the mur- 
ders and burnings they threatened — all these endued the 
movements of the army with almost superhuman courage, 
activity and achievement. 

Had anything like the same ardor and patriotic devo- 
tion animated the French army in its struggle with the 


V 


161 


The Escape. 

Prussians, they would have inspired their generals, have 
encouraged themselves, and saved their great nation from 
the disgrace which only many generations can efface. 
Indeed, no nation was ever before more punished and 
more humiliated. France first drew the sword — only to 
perish by the sword. 

The triumphs of the army over the military mob of 
the communistic destructionists in the city were steady, 
and left the final result in no doubt; but just in the 
degree in which the government developed and applied 
its strength, did the revolutionists become reckless. 

Laroche had not played for power from any definite 
ambition (his nature did not rise up to that), but from 
an innate desire for petty eminence, a love of mischief, 
and a greed for plunder. A great mission or duty would 
have wearied and overcome him; but an active life some- 
where between that of a spy and a prefect of police was 
his glory. Now that the bugles of rightful authority 
were daily sounding nearer the heart of the city, the 
hopes of the riotous fiends, men and women, who held a 
whole people in terror, quailed before their evident doom. 
Laroche lost all moderation; if he could not perpetuate 
his petty sway, he could at least enjoy the mad joy of 
malignant destruction. His first act, like that of the 
entire commune, was without other motive. No one 
should rule at the Hotel de Ville if he did not — if he 
must go down, so should all that others enjoyed. He 
would leave ashes where he once sat in triumph; and 
with his own hand he fired that magnificent town-hall. 
With its leaping flames and its crashing walls, all the 
harpies and thieves and desperadoes of the awful dens 
of that wonderful city seemed to he seized with a pyro- 
mania. 


162 Judith Carson; or. Which was the Heiress, 

Crawford Carpenter, from his grated window that 
overlooked the Seine and the Louvre, saw one conflagra- 
tion follow another ; he saw women in utter insanity 
pouring oil down cellars, on the fronts of palaces, where- 
ever Are could destroy, and then apply the match in 
ecstacy of joy, until his heart sickened at the dreadful 
saturnalia. 

The expiring bickerings of the fires of the Tuilleries 
exhausted the diabolism of the rabble, and found the 
heel of an authority now resistless and merciless, stamp- 
ing them into perdition. 

Faith and worship having been suppressed in the pop- 
ular heart and driven away from altar and aisle, civili- 
zation turned back the hand upon the dial of progress 
to the hour when secular force proclaimed itself equal 
to the vicissitudes of events, and the master of social 
destinies. 

It was in this maelstrom of ruin that one set of lives 
must accept their catastrophes. They had sowed to the 
wind and must reap the whirlwind. Laroche had com- 
mittted all to the current of this social tornado, and lost. 
When the last desperate resistance was made at the outer 
wall, and communism, indentified with murder, arson, 
and pillage, measured its strength for the last time with 
legitimacy and public order, Laroche had the unreason- 
ing courage of the suicide, to whom any future is pref- 
erable to a present despair. 

Licentiousness, hate, and all evil had put their last 
human fiend on parapet, bastion and walls — hellishness 
had made its last rally, and howled its last defiant shriek, 
when Laroche and the commune were no more. When 
despair made its last blow, there he was courting a fate 
he ever before dreaded, and only now accepting as the 


The Escape, 163 

least of the dooms awaiting him. Death bailed him out 
of prison forever. 

And what of the rest ? 

Crawford Carpenter’s detention, of course, was a 
caprice of the petty usurper, and terminated the first 
day that lawful government was re-established. 

After Judith had given her address to the boatman 
who had rescued her from the Seine, she became afraid, 
from her habit of suspicion, that she might have revealed 
her abode to Laroche, not knowing that Parram was in 
the city, or even in Europe. But when Crawford Car- 
penter was released, he concluded to cross the river by 
boat instead of going round to the bridge. Passing Notre 
Dame, where the morgue is situated, he drew from the 
boatman some account of his adventures with the living, 
and of his picking up the dead of the Seine. Among 
other stories, he told Crawford of taking Judith in his 
boat, as she clung to the gates of the prison, and how, 
having received her address, he had called, and found 
that she had not attempted suicide, but was an escaped 
prisoner, and an American. 

“ Do you remember her name inquired Carpenter. 

Here, Monsieur, is what she wrote in my order book, 
when she told me to come for my reward for helping 
her. See ! ” And he opened his book in which he made 
memoranda for that day, and Carpenter read to his great 
surprise : 

‘‘Judith Carson, Rue de , No. 10.” 

“Why, this can be no other,” thought Carpenter, 
“ than the wife of Parram, whom I am seeking, divorced 
soon after marriage, and whose father I knew.” 

His mind ran over such particulars of this unfortunate 
affair as had come to his knowledge in professional busi- 


164 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

ness, after he came to the bar ; but for the moment, he 
saw no importance the information could be to him. 

Laroche had boasted that he had Crawford Carpenter 
and George Parram as prisoners. But was Parram really 
in Paris ? The last certain knowledge of him was that 
he was an invalid at Florence. Wherever he was, it was 
important that Crawford Carpenter should find him. 
The usual circulars giving the place and oftentimes the 
route of Americans abroad, mentioned his name at Flor- 
ence, Rome, and Naples. It occurred to Crawford Car- 
penter that Judith, whose address he had accidentally 
obtained, might possibly know something of the where- 
abouts of her divorced husband ; and that, if he could 
make her acquaintance, he might find some opportunity 
to ascertain whether she really knew anything about him 
or not. He now had the opportunity to communicate 
with her. What we call chance, helps. Besides calling 
one day at the banker’s ( all tourists are much at the 
place where they have funds and where they receive 
their mail) , the clerk showed to him, as he did to others, 
a letter addressed to Mrs. Judith Carson, Paris, and said 
that it had been enclosed to their care by the writer, 
thinking it likely that some American would know where 
it could reach her. 

Crawford Carpenter at once caught at this as the 
opportunity he desired to open a communication with 
Judith ; and he told the clerk that he knew her address, 
and would see to the delivery of the note. Taking it, 
he enclosed it in one of his own, telling her how it came 
into his hands, and congratulating her on her rescue 
from the Seine, and added such other expressions of 
interest as would be most likely to provoke a reply, per- 
haps an invitation to call. 


165 


The Escape. 

Judith received his note and its enclosure; she found 
that she had a motive to know him. That note purport- 
ed to be from Laroche, announcing to her that George 
Parram, before falling mortally wounded in the late 
battles of the commue, had requested him, if he survived, 
to hunt up his wife, and thank her for her care of him 
during his recent illness at Florence. 

Judith, upon receiving this note, was utterly prostra- 
ted by the shock of this abrupt and unexpected termin- 
ation of her bitter domestic drama. In Paris her troubles 
developed, and in Paris it seemed they had culminated. 

Dead ! Her injuries at his hands were forgotten for the 
hour, and hid under the pall that now covered him for- 
ever. His name had, for years, been to her a sound of 
alarm. In the decree of the court giving him the custody 
of the child she had so successfully concealed from him, 
he had held the key of her doom, as she erroneously 
supposed. She shuddered to think, that though free 
and safe, it was at such a price. There is no triumph in 
the presence of the dead. Her motive of life seemed 
gone. She need hide no more, unless from Laroche, of 
whose death she knew nothing. Indeed,- she supposed 
Laroche to be alive, of course, for his name was to the 
note she had received. And now what ! She sat for 
some time wrapt in deepest abstraction. She could at 
last go out into the world, with her daughter as her own, 
and there was no one, certainly not George Parram, to 
take her from her. The unnatural excitement of her 
life, and the false reasoning to which she had committed 
herself so long, ceased when the commune’s last plume 
of fire went out, leaving the ashes of a city, and the 
ashes of her dead husband, in silent ruin behind. Her 
will had hitherto sustained her resistance to circumstan- 


166 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress, 

ces; but now she had nothing to struggle against, and 
she was almost appalled at the joyless, aimless, empty 
future , before her. Having nowhere else to turn, her 
thoughts naturally turned to the old and familiar scenes, 
and names, and reminiscences of her earlier days ; and 
she longed to go home. She wanted to talk with some^ 
one. She read again and again the note of Crawford 
Carpenter. Its kindly spirit won her confidence, and 
made her desire to know and counsel with him. She 
sent a note to his bankers, thanking him for his con- 
sideration, and asking him to call and see her. The ^ 
messenger left the note, but was told that he had left 
for Munich, Innsbruck, Florence, and possible Eome, 
and would be gone for several weeks. 

She at once wrote a long letter to Fra Abby, telling , 
him of the revulsion in her domestic affairs, and how 
she had determined to return to her own land. She 
asked him to notice the arrival of Crawford Carpenter,, 
and give him such attentions as might be in his power. 
He was, she said, a stranger to her, but he had been con- 
siderate of her, and she wished, as a return, to be instru- 
mental in making his sojourn in Florence as pleasant 
and profitable as possible. 


CHAPTEK XYII. 


THE ALPS. 

That the outcome of things is always otherwise than 
we expect is illustrated by what will be narrated in this 
chapter. When we gain that which we seek, we find our- 
~ selves in the midst of many things which we did not 
seek. 

Not hearing from Judith for several days after for- 
warding to her the note mentioned in the last chapter, 
Crawford Carpenter determined to proceed to Florence, 
as the last place that George Parram had been heard 
from, with the hope to find him still there, or there learn 
whither he had gone. 

As the Brenner Pass was the only one then open into 
Italy, both from the great fall of snow in Switzerland 
and the breaking up of the railroad communications in 
the south of France by the war, Crawford Carpenter pro- 
ceeded by the way of Brussels, Aix la Chappelle, Cologne, 
Mayence, Munich, Innsbruck, and Botzen, and so on to 
Florence. At Innsbruck, learning that the next day the 
Emperor Francis Joseph and suite would be on the train 
en route to visit the Empress at Botzen, and that the 
population of the Tyrol would be out to receive his 
Majesty, Crawford Carpenter determined to stop for the 
day at Innsbruck, and go over the Alps in the train with 
the imperial party. 

Guide books are now so full of descriptions of local- 
ities that no traveler can hope to tell anything about 
the Alps of new interest. Of this much, however, the 
167 


168 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

memories of readers may be reminded; the river Inn at 
Innsbruck is crossed by a bridge which gave to the town 
the name of Innsbruck. It is the capitol of the Tyrol, 
the place of the assemblage of the Tyrolese Estates, and 
has about 15,000 inhabitants. It is in a valley so deep 
that the tops of the high hills seem to prop the skies. 
Here lived Hofer, the peasant general, who displayed 
such consummate ability against the French and Bava- 
rians. His statue, by Schaller, a Tyrolese artist, in the 
silver chapel, represents him as standing on a mountain 
projection, in the costume of his country, with his rifle 
slung over his shoulder, and an unfurled banner in his 
right hand. The town, though a small one, has many 
things of interest. 

Crawford Carpenter having but a day to spend here 
while waiting for the next morning’s train, as we have 
mentioned, employed a courier to show him the points 
of interest. From the little villages, barnacled on the 
mountain sides like oriel nests, the views are magnifl- 
cent. They are wondrously fine from the winding, 
mountain road which commands a panoramic view of 
the grand glaciers and of the valley of the Stubly. • It 
was in one of these villages that the carriage stopped to 
rest the horses a little, while Carpenter and his guide, as 
is usual with travelers, refreshed themselves at the Heil- 
igenwasser spring, as it murmers out of the mountain 
side, in a small grotto, shadowy and mysterous enough 
for the home of an Oread. The people of the hamlet 
regard this as their fountain of wealth, for what with 
their magnificent views down the Stubly, their spring of 
delicious water, and their proximity to the glaciers, no 
place of more interest could be found, and travelers leave 
many a florin in their midst. These simple villagers, 


169 


The Alps, 

too, have a most natural curiosity to talk with tourists, 
and an unconquerable desire to tell them stories of the 
legends of the mountains, where Hofer ambushed the 
Erench and Bavarians in these steep passes, and how 
signal fires had telegraphed for him from village to vil- 
lage, all along these precipitous ranges of snow-crowned 
heights. Here the soul may commune with immensity, 
as in the amphitheater of primeval Nature. Here is a 
prodigality of sublimity, an infinite profusion of glory 
and grandeur. Here the elastic cascade seeks the sullen 
chasm — there it is caught as it leaps from inaccessible 
crags, and freezes into a creamy scarf, hanging upon the 
bosom of its weird mother mountain, bannered with 
clouds, and wrapt in a winding sheet of snow. While 
the way winds up the graded road, walled in on the side 
of the precipice, the depths seem ever to drop from 
beneath the gaze. The wilderness of forest and chasm, 
and the arrowy peaks that look down even upon the 
eagle’s palpitating wing, and stand like frozen sentinels 
in the empire of eternal snow and ice, inspire the soul 
with awe. How distant and how nothing seems the 
world of men when thus girdled with the solemn senate 
of nature’s uncounted mountains ! 

As Crawford Carpenter, lost in these reflections, was 
looking far down the valley, over the road wall as from 
a parapet of heaven, a woman from the small inn, unper- 
ceived, approached his side, and spoke in broken English 
and French: 

^"Monsieur, if you are English, you would like to 
climb to yonder peak, and my son knows the way.” 

Thank you, my good woman,” replied Crawford 
Carpenter, I am not English, but I am American, and 
I have neither time nor inclination to make the excur- 
sion.” 


170 Jicdith Gar son ; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

Then you are an American/’ responded the woman 
with much interest. 

Perhaps you can tell me something of two who were 
once under my roof. One was a lady, and was called 
Judith, and the other might have been her maid, and 
was called Ina. 

The names at once attracted Carpenter’s attention, 
and his interest encouraged her to go on. 

The two came to this village, at first we thought ta 
enjoy our grand scenery; but it soon became evident 
that they had made arrangements for a stay, and to 
be off here alone with us ]30or people at the birth 
of their children. Their money was free, and that 
to us was a fortune. We asked no questions, though 
there was a mystery in all they did. The one called Ina 
had her child — a daughter — first; the lady called Judith 
had also a beautiful little girl, and all went well. But 
one day the two — I mean the lady and the one we took 
to be her maid — were suddenly awfully alarmed at the 
arrival of two strangers, who evidently were in pursuit 
of the two mothers. The lady Judith, as she saw the 
two approach her door, exchanged babies with Ina, her 
maid, and told her to rush off with hers until she should 
send her word. Sure enough the two men went into 
her room as if they had found a fugitive from crime. 
At first the poor lady was terribly alarmed and indig- 
nant; but the man turned out to be her husband, and 
he seized the child in her arms' and went away with it. 
The lady supposed, of course, that he took away Ina’s 
child, and told her that the man was rich, and to go as 
a nurse to her own child, which the man supposed to be 
his own, because he took it from the arms of the lady, 
his wife. The man was only too glad to get a nurse for 


171 


The Alps. 

liis child; and, almost on the hour, after hiring the maid 
to go with the child, perhaps to America, he, with his 
fellow traveller, the maid servant and her child, left the 
village as abruptly as he came. Lady Judith was left 
behind; but as she still retained her own baby (as she 
thought), she, of course, was not grieved. Each mother 
supposed she had her own baby. The man only was 
deceived, and he deceived himself. He thought the 
child in the lady’s arms was hers.” 

^^And the lady Judith did not undeceive him?” 
inquired Crawford. 

^^Ho, indeed, sir, she seemed to intend to deceive 
him, and so did the maid. ” 

‘‘Suppose he liad not proposed to hire the one you 
call Ina as a nurse, would she have let him carry off her 
child, as his own, do you think?” 

“ It is hard to tell. Sometimes her kind are glad to 
get rid of their children on any terms. She did not, 
perhaps, think what she would do; but when she saw 
that a rich man was under the delusion that her child 
was his, and wanted to do for it as his own, and that she 
could go along as its nurse, she helped him to cheat 
himself. So, Monsieur, when you told me that you 
were from America, I thought possibly you might know 
these people, and could tell me about them. That was 
a cute trick the lady Judith played on her husband, was 
it not? And he was so fearfully angry with her — some 
great trouble and mystery between them, but that was 
all we could learn.” 

“Why,” said Crawford Carpenter, “did you say that 
each mother supposed she had her own child; did they 
not know it? was there any doubt about it?” 

“ Why, yes. Monsieur, there was a great mistake all 


172 Judith Carson ; or, Which loas the Heiress. 

around. The lady Judith thought that by her trick 
she had put off Ina’s child upon her husband for her 
own?’’ 

Well, why was that not so? You say that when the 
husband came, the two exchanged infants. Did not 
that place the infant of the lady in the servant’s arms, 
and the servant’s infant in the lady’s arms ? ” 

Yo, Monsieur, if all were known, perhaps, the chil- 
dren had been exchanged once before, at their birth.” 
She so hesitated in this statement, and looked so guilty, 
that Crawford determined to probe the mystery, and 
encouraged her to go on. All people, especially of the 
lower class, enjoy the interest which they find themselves 
creating in others, and to keep it up, when in a com- 
municative mood, will even narrate their own evil his- 
tory. Criminals, when not fearing consequences, will 
reveal their own crimes. Every man aspires to be a 
hero, and criminals seek to be leaders in their own line. 
Erau Denker saw that she had aroused the deepest atten- 
tion of the stranger; and he, by the most encouraging 
manner, paid a very insidious compliment to her impor- 
tance and knowledge of this bit of adventure, by his 
kindly tone and friendly face. Drawing still nearer as 
if, of course, she was to go on and tell all, he remarked 
in a most tentative way: ‘^And so they were exchanged 
once before, were they? That was a good trick. The 
mothers were duped at last. Who exchanged the infants 
before?” 

Well, I don’t know that it is best for me to say, but 
I know they were exchanged.” Before, Erau Denker 
had only admitted iliOit perhaps they had been exchanged; 
now she said that she knew it. So Crawford Carpenter, 
accustomed to examine and cross-examine witnesses. 


173 


The Alps, 

had drawn her out more and more, and said, When I 
go back to America, it may become important to prove 
all you have told me. The man you say was rich, and 
the two mothers think he has the wrong child. The 
right child ought to have the father’s wealth. From 
what you say, the father has really his own child, but if 
either mother ever says what she knows, the true child 
would be thrown out, and the wrong child be the heir. 
So, as the mothers acted so wickedly, you did a good 
act, without their knowledge, in exchanging the chil- 
dren.” He did not ask her if she was the one who had 
made the exchange, but he saw that she was, and he 
knew that she would not remember how far she had 
confessed her act, and so he quietly assumed it, as if she 
liad herself told it, and applauded her act as resulting 
in good, though she had not so intended it. 

People generally like to be praised for the very things 
they would like to do, but do not. 

‘^But now,” continued Crawford Carpenter, “your 
act, which put the right child in the right place, ought 
to be known.” 

Frau Denker had before thought that she was the 
criminal, but the way it was now made to appear, the 
two mothers were the guilty parties, and she had i^rovi- 
dentially intervened to make wrong matters right. 

Many a conscience is calmed when God averts the evil 
of our acts, and brings good out of evil. 

So, in the innocent and more pious aspect her act now 
assumed, she talked of it as a commendable thing, and 
{IS if she had frankly announced it at the first. 

After full conversation upon the whole matter, he 
gave Frau Denker his address, and took hers. He told 
lier that she might hear from him again, and so returned 
to Innsbruck. 


/ 


174 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

The story was an immense surprise to him, and if it 
were true, the two mothers were most bitterly deceived. 

He did not know before that Judith liad any child 
with her. The story was that her husband had taken 
her child, even from her arms, and no one knew that 
the nurse in Parram’s house had left a child behind her. 
This second child was a new personage altogether. 

The question now was, who was deceived ?■ Was Ina 
in fact nursing Judith’s child all these years, thinking 
it her own, and had Judith made all her sacrifices and 
her insane struggle for the custody of a child that was 
not her own ? 

The events were becoming so tangled that Crawford 
saw no clew to the unraveling of them. 

It was evident that Parram’s despotism and cruelty 
to his wife had prompted her to attempt upon him a 
deep revenge. But if Frau Denker was to be believed, 
her blow had fallen upon herself. 


CHAPTER XYIII. 


HOMEWARD. 

After an interesting but not altogether successful yisit 
to Italy, getting no trace of Parram, Crawford Carpen- 
ter hastened back to Paris. There he received Judith’s 
letter, asking him to be sure to call or let her know when 
he was again in the city. 

He immediately called upon her, and was shown by 
her the note signed ^‘Laroche,” announcing the death 
of Parram. 

So great a change did this intelligence produce in the 
affairs in his hands, that he wished time to reflect, and 
he soon excused himself, promising to call again the next 
day, and offering to serve her in the meantime in any 
way in his power. She remarked that possibly she would 
return to America, and asked him when he would him- 
self return. He replied that he would return in a very 
short time, and took his leave. Somehow, he found 
himself unable to realize the death of Parram. It seemed 
such a timely escape from greater troubles — a felon’s 
fate. And yet this information was not satisfactory. 
Who was Laroche, that he should acquaint Judith with 
death of her divorced husband ? Might there not be a 
collusion here, or even the false report of the death by 
Parram himself. Of course this last theory would have 
been apparently true, had either Judith or Carpenter 
known that Laroche was dead. Carpenter, the next day, 
Recording to appointment, called again to see Judith, to 
inquire about this Laroche. He looked again at the note 
— considered its statements, weighed the reasons for such 

175 


176 Judith Oar son; or, Which was the Heiress. 

an announcement to Judith, and studied the handwrit- 
ing well. The result was that he was perfectly satisfied 
that Parram wrote the letter himself, and so informed 
Judith. Both remained silent for some moments, pon- 
dering the reasons for and against this conclusion of 
Carpenter. At last Judith said : ‘^Whether your con- 
clusion be well founded or not, I have determined to go 
home. If he is dead, I have no need to fear him there, 
and if he be alive I have some reasons yet to fear him 
here. He holds a decree of divorce giving him the cus- 
tody of our child, and I ha^e been sequestered for years 
to foil him and retain my child. But I am weary of this 
anxiety and this struggle, and I will go home and risk 
the result. Besides, there must be some estate for me 
there somewhere. The child is now old enough to have 
a way of her own in the matter, and I need no longer to 
fear the enmity of the law. If you will allow me, I will 
take my child and return home with you.’’ 

What child ? ” inquired Crawford Carpenter, as if 
he knew nothing, and wishing to see her mind. I’ve 
understood that your husband had your child.” 

Oh, yes, I forgot that the possession of my child was 
my own secret, and I will tell you all.” 

So she told Crawford all^ as the reader may suppose she 
thought the facts to be. When she had finished, Craw- 
ford was silent, not seeing that it was best to enlighten 
Judith as to what Frau Denker had told him, and fear- 
ing that one who had been under the strain of a morbid 
maternal passion or a morbid conjugal hatred for so many 
years could not endure such a disclosure. Accordingly 
he acted upon her impression of the facts, and assured 
her that she might be free and undisguised, as he would 
protect her from all vexations or risks of loss of her child 
— that Parram was powerless even if alive. 


Homeward. 


177 


But what about Laroche?’’ she inquired. ‘^He 
told me that he knew that the child I have was his and 
and Ina’s ? ” 

Remembering what Frau Denker had told him, he 
questioned in his own mind whether Ina could have 
known of the first exchange by Frau Denker, and if so, 
whether she had told Laroche. It was evident that each 
mother thought she had her own child, and when Ina 
told Laroche, her husband, that she had abandoned his 
child to Judith, she must simply have resorted to a false- 
hood to get rid of him. Any way, Crawford Carpenter 
told Judith to have no further fear of anyone. Subter- 
fuges and flights were at an end, and Judith breathed 
like a new being. 

He then took leave of Judith, giving her his address 
in London, where he would necessarily be for a week or 
more, in further attention to the business upon which 
he came. 

Without Parram’s aid the fraudulent complication of 
the bonds as discovered in London could only be unrav- 
elled by an examination of the books of the corpora- 
tions issuing the bonds in America. Let us look home- 
ward. 

Crawford Carpenter after putting the business in Lon- 
don in the best shape he could, with Judith and her 
daughter (whose name was Mary) embarked for America. 
When all were fairly settled in their state rooms, and he 
had no duty to distract his attention, he gave himself 
up to reflection upon the mystery that surrounded so 
many in whom he was concerned. What had been the 
fate of Parram ? Who was Laroche, and more than all 
whose child was Mary ? — these and many more ques- 
tions came up for solution. He had never seen Mary 
until she came with her mother to the ship, and then 
her timid manner forbade any special notice of her. 


178 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

It was not until the steamer dropped anchor at Queens- 
town that she and her mother ventured on deck. As 
Crawford Carpenter watched the steerage passengers 
(not as numerous as usual) pack their boxes and bedding 
on board, and part from friend and home for a new world, 
Judith and Mary joining him, the former said : Ireland 
is an interesting country ? 

Yes,'’ replied Crawford Carpenter, ^'the Irish are a 
remarkable people. 

Judith continued to keej^ up the conversation that she 
might cover the blushes which Crawford Carpenter’s 
notice of Mary had provoked. 

It was during this conversation about almost nothing 
that Crawford Carpenter had an opportunity of seeing 
Mary, unobserved by her. If Frau Denker had, indeed, 
told the truth, and he could see no reason to doubt her, 
this beautiful girl was the child of servants, and Judith 
had been the victim of a bitter cheat of her own devis- 
ing. When he looked at Mary, and saw her sweet inno- 
cence and bright intelligence, it mattered but little to 
his manly and just sentiments whether the blood of a 
Parram or of a Laroche ran in her veins. If both were 
bad, the one she owned seemed to have flowed from a 
purer source than either. Mary Carson, or Parram, was 
now seventeen, or a little past. Her stature was ideally 
perfect, as that of the Medician V enus. Her light brown 
hair, almost auburn, though full, was not a heavy mass, 
but coiled up on the back of her head in antique simplic- 
ity, needed the aid of neither flower nor ornament. 
With her young girl’s fresh complexion, blushing at the 
least attention, and blue eyes full of innocent thought, 
she seemed as unconscious of beauty as a flower upon the 
altar, or the child in the arms of the Madonna. Of course, 
Crawford Carpenter, Judith and Mary, on the voyage. 


Homeward. 


179 


saw much of one another. Judith, though still in the 
years of perfect womanhood, had caught from the vicis- 
situdes of her life the full depths of their shadows, and 
had just that reserve which comes from an occupied mind. 
To Mary, the world was as new as the first morning in 
Eden. Everything made her happy. If Crawford Car- 
penter spoke to her, her cheek anticipated her tongue. 
If he proposed a walk on deck, she looked to her mother 
for approval. If he spoke to her of the life before her, 
she turned her face up to his, as if to inquire what he 
would tell her about it. 

^‘Is not life happy ?” she said to him one evening, as 
they sat on deck, just as light and darkness wedded in 
the twilight. 

‘‘Asa diapason in music,’’ said Carpenter, “life has 
u varied movement. Like this twilight, the light is still 
here. Make the most of it. The darkness has its own 
hour, and veils both smiles and tears.” 

“ But not all its stars too,” sweetly remarked Mary. 

Crawford Carpenter, struck by the beautiful hopeful- 
ness of her remark, glanced at her face, and then fol- 
lowed her eyes upward, and lo ! the stars protested 
against the triumph of darkness, and emphasized their 
own glory by their bright particular solitude. 

“See,” said Judith, herself pointing to the sky, as a 
meteor shot down the dome of the heavens, and went 
out in the brooding night. Just then Judith’s thoughts 
had gone back, most unusually, to the father of Mary ; 
and without being conscious why, her imagination, now 
morbid by years of secret life, associated in thought the 
plunging star and the man ; and, turning to Crawford 
Carpenter, she asked him : 

“ Do you believe in signs and auguries ?” 

“ I believe,” he replied, “in a Providence. He who 


180 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress, 

makes does not forget his works. Not a sparrow falleth 
to the ground without the knowledge of the Infinite 
One.” 

‘‘Do you believe,” inquired Judith again, “that that 
falling star was portentous of any coming event ?” 

“ I do not attempt to interpret the meaning of the* 
marvelous,” he answered : “ Our Father’s plan is hid ta 
us in time.” 

After a few moments, in which each one seemed occu- 
pied with his or her own thoughts, they descended from 
the deck, and each retired to rest in helplessness, through 
the darkness on the billows, which answered to no man’s 
control. 

As Crawford Carpenter sought his state-room that 
night, somehow the stars that riveted the empyrean of 
God had gone out in the sweet blue eyes of Mary, as she 
looked up in his face and said : 

“Good night.” 

The night was darker and lonelier for her having said 
it— or rather looked it — or still rather blushed it. 

Everything was new to her as she stepped out into the 
world from her convent school life. She was new to 
herself, and especially was it something strangely new,, 
like Eolian sounds lingering in echoes, for her so to- 
salute a handsome young man. As the blush inter- 
preted the thoughts and told her mysterious confusion,, 
it only showed how maiden purity dwells in cloistered 
life, and angelic innocence there tempers the soul. 

Eeader, have you ever been at sea, and seen it calm 
and still in its illimitable plane and sublime solitude, 
the solitude of the infinite ? Such our voyagers saw it 
one morning, as they approached the Western Hemi- 
sphere. Scarcely a breath of air wandered in the hushed 
heavens. The ocean lay in motionless and listening: 


Homewards 


181 


silence. The disk of the sun yet hung reluctant below 
the horizon, from whose entire and measureless rim rose 
up a dome of pearl, changing from a rosy flush on the 
water’s edge upward to iridescent hue of God’s chromatic 
glory, until its zenith of soft deep blue veiled its maker’s 
throne. 

Crawford Carpenter was the flrst passenger on deck, 
and so baffling all description was the overwhelming 
glory of this morning scene, that he hastened below to 
bring up Judith and her daughter to see it. Judith had 
not yet completed her toilet,, but Mary had been waiting 
for some time to escape from their room, and get a 
draught of fresh morning air. At the call of Crawford 
Carpenter^ Judith told Mary not to wait, but to go, and 
she would soon join them. As they reached the deck, 
the advancing light changed from tint to tint, and hue 
to hue, until the full risen sun burst in upon the scene, 
and took possession of the transcendent sublimity. The 
clouds that lay white along the distant heights kindled 
into flaming fringes, the whole floor of the ocean, begin- 
ning to move with the gentlest zephyrs, soon broke into 
wavelets, sparkling and flashing like a diamond carpet, 
and a picture never to be repeated by God, or seen again 
by man, was photographed forever upon the souls of 
Crawford and Mary. They saw God’s hand of power 
and His celestial designs of new beauty in this frescoed 
vault of sky, rising up from the floor of the ocean’s ever- 
changing mosaic, and both stood awed and devout in the 
presence of the Inflnite glory. 

If there is one time more than another, when the soul 
absorbs the strongest and the most subtle power of love, 
it is in its devoutest moods. 

Young love is the insanity of happiness, and the 
earthly side of religion. It worships that as divine 


182 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

which it exalts so high. These two, man and maiden^ 
soul-types and parts of the dawn they beheld, like fire 
worshippers of the East, turned to the sun as it rose, 
and offered to its gorgeous dominion, as unconscious 
perfumes from flowers, the litany of their unshaped 
adoration ; and from the golden light of the morning 
without and the light of youth’s hopes within, they were 
entranced and sanctified in the pantheistic Presence. 
What shall be their vesper hymn ? 

The days of their voyage wore on in the otherwise usual 
tedious monotony, but that morning came not again. 
One such glimpse of celestial beauty is vouchsafed ta 
human vision; then come the clouds and cold winds of 
life. In that one vision^ as Crawford Carpenter stood 
by the side of Mary and looked upon the material coun- 
tenance of God, he remembered not the mystery and 
doubt that Frau Denker had thrown across her path. 
Apart from her history the overpowering splendor of 
the morning had its sweet humanity in her, and Mary 
and that dawn were companions in his memory for- 
ever. 

As the vessel neared the Western shore, fogs came out 
to envelop them in their misty shroud, and obscure their 
path. For several days the vessel was stealing along its 
unintelligent way, and got far out of its course. Though 
no observation as to course or latitude could be taken, 
the result showed that they were near Cape Pace. The 
change in temperature in both the air and water reveal- 
ed the vicinity of icebergs, and every officer was at his 
post, and the utmost vigilance kept up in every appoint- 
ment of the ship. The passengers were summoned to 
the life-boats, and each one told that the ship was in 
the midst of icebergs, and, if she struck on her side, they 
would have but a moment to take to the boats, and no 


Homeward. 


183 


passenger would be admitted into any other boat than 
the one then assigned liim. As for the rest, they must 
take care of themselves. 

On the fifth or sixth day, as the ship was steaming 
slowly, with only speed enough for steering, and every 
fog signal was active, the Captain knew from the rever- 
beration of the sound of the fog-horn, that they must be 
near some ice-wall, and ordered the engines to stop. 
There was not much sea on, and the ship moved with 
slow apprehensiveness, like the steps of a blind man 
among snakes, when to the horror of all they found 
themselves going close along by the side of an iceberg, 
that seemed like an extended wall of crystal, asserting 
its cold light even amidst the fog-pall that hid sea and 
sky. Quick as thought the prow was turned from one, 
only to find another as terrible on. the other side. The 
opening between them was scarcely wide enough to pass 
the ship. A low, grinding sound told the dreadful fact 
that the ice was cutting into both sides of the ship. 

The engines were instantly reversed, but too ' late. 
Two terrible ledges of ice had penetrated the vessel, one 
on each side, and sealed her fate. Consternation crush- 
ed all hope. The ofiicers, accustomed to dangers, and 
to coolness under panics, were composed and helpful to 
all. The Captain, at his post, was as collected and 
calm as if drilling his crew in the ordinary working of 
the ship. Eeports as to its condition were received and 
acted upon instantly. His self-control impressed itself 
upon every subordinate, and was shared in even by 
many of the passengers. 

Crawford Carpenter grew calm as others became con- 
fused and frantic. Judith and Mary obeyed him silently 
and trustingly. His clear thought, prompt resolution, 
and supreme will, directed all assigned to his boat. He 


184 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

made one man go below and gather np blankets, and ex- 
hibited such foresight and sea-knowledge, that even the 
seamen allotted to his boat saw in him an officer. As 
yet the vessel was wedged in, as on crutches, between 
the two icebergs, and could not sink. As long as the 
bergs lay together they were safe; but the Captain, 
knowing that things must soon change, ordered all the 
boats carried to the stern and lowered from the davits 
there. The sea was there calm as in a cave, and in per- 
fect and unquestioned order every life-boat was safely 
launched, and its quota of human life silently em- 
barked. 

Fortunately, again, in the fewness of both steerage 
and cabin passengers, there were boats for all, though 
exceedingly and dangerously crowded. 

And now, with the Captain, the last to leave the 
doomed ship, which was soon lost to sight, all were 
afloat in a dense fog, upon a dismal, awful ocean. A 
slight breeze made some little sea, and the boats drifted 
apart; signals between them were useless, and were not 
attempted. Each one was left to the law of the sea, to 
care for itself. 

Crawford Carpenter had been much upon the water. 
Most of his vacation life had been spent in sailing, bath- 
ing, and sports in the surf, and his ear was quick to de- 
tect the sound of what he hoped might be the breakers, 
far off to the right. 

To an apprehensive imagination it might have moaned 
like the ocean’s requiem for the millions of its dead, but 
to him there was hope in it. 

He had four sailors in his boat, and twenty passengers, 
including a due proportion of women and children; and 
now for a voyage without chart or compass, sun-light or 
star-light. 


Homeward. 


185 


It required no election of a commander. Times of 
peril reyeal the man of true coolness, judgment and 
courage, whoever may be the nominal chief. 

And now, what should he do? Stand still, or take a 
course? Hoist a sail, or keep to the oars? If he moved, 
he might he moving away from the shore instead of 
toward it. Everything was uncertain. But in the hope 
that he had heard the breakers on his right, he deter- 
mined to head toward it, or at least to keep to that 
sound as long as possible. All night long, its lonely 
murmur was his only guide, and the night was so dread- 
fully long. In the morning, the light of the sun, 
struggling through the fog, was like the smile of love 
on the face of the dying, without warmth and without 
hope. 

But so far, all were safe. Their boat behaved admira- 
bly, buoyant as a cork, tight and well-stored. He felt 
that if no storm arose there were encouraging chances 
for the safety of all. The provisions were carefully 
given out, the fresh water in their limited tanks most 
rigidly allowed, and every heart lived in prayer to Him 
Avho, saying to the waves, ‘‘Peace, be still I” rebuked 
the fearful for their want of faith. 

In that faith, two of all those souls that floated over 
the watery tomb, Crawford and Mary, were tranquil and 
trusting. If heaven were not allowed them here, they 
knew it awaited them hereafter. They asked the Mighty 
Father to save or take as he saw best. Heaven was no 
further from that little shallop on the sea than from the 
holiest temple on the land. As the morning wore on, 
Crawford Carpenter found the sound he had been no- 
ticing becoming clearer and stronger. The tide was 
then taking them ashore in every throb of its resistless 
pulse, and nearer and nearer came the thundering roar 
of the awful breakers. 


186 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

Some knew the danger, and some did not; but as the 
hours passed, and the fog lifted, all saw the long low 
beach, and the white foam that burst along its sands. 

The alarm was general, and even the sailors became 
terrified at the inevitable alternative before them. 

Behind was the storm-threatened sea, still dark with 
the fog, and before them seemed to be certain death in 
the breakers. 

But Crawford Carpenter assured all that their perils 
were now over; for he was no stranger to the duty before 
him. He knew that for every great wave that breaks is 
a third th at rolls on smoothly to the shore. He instructed 
the sailors to wait for his command. Nearer and nearer 
the precious freight was borne irresistably on to inevi- 
table death or safety. 

The suspense became agonizing. AVomen sank, and 
men grew pale; but Crawford Carpenter was calm and 
self-assured. Judith and Mary trusted to him almost 
as to a god. They could now distinctly see the land, 
and people on the shore. Soon their approach drew 
down to the very water’s edge all the dwellers near, to 
watch the fate of the comers. 

Crawford Carpenter ordered all to be quiet. AVith 
his eye fixed on a long wall of foam, he ordered the 
sailors to back their oars. He let one big wave pass, and 
saw it break in terrible height of foam and spray. Then 
came another, less formidable, and broke. Then came 
the third, upon which he must risk all. Now!” he 
cried, ‘‘bend to it, my lads, for your lives — steady — 
hold your hand I ” and on the top of that swell, and down 
the smooth slope, swept by triumphant power, the little 
boat glided far up on the sandy beach — safe. 

But few of the other boats were ever heard from. 
Several days after, two or three were driven ashore; but. 


Homeivarcl. 


187 


not knowing how to take the breakers, were at once 
overwhelmed and drowned in the undertow. 

God makes the third wave smooth on the shore as a 
way to escape for His children of the sea; but they must 
both know the way, and have the faith to follow it. 
And ever, 0 Lord, in life and in death, on the sea and 
on the land, teach us Thy way. 


CHAPTEE XIX. 

THE KKIFE. 

The sweetest flower blooms at night. 

During the voyage Crawford Carpenter talked with 
Judith about her previous life, the circumstances of her 
marriage, and the bitter treatment of her husband, and 
ascertained her reasons for her subsequent mode of life. 

He saw that she had by no means done all the sin- 
ning; and that whatever had been her mistakes of rea-^ 
soning, she had become gentler and more devout by her 
trials, and looked at life far differently from behind its 
shadows than she had before the shadows came. By 
copying paintings and by other art-work, she had sus- 
tained herself and daughter after the death of her father, 
and the consequent disappearance of her father’s fortune;, 
but the strain had been so prolonged that she desired to 
be rid of it, and to rest both in mind and body. She 
was the last of her family, as her mother died in giving 
birth to her, and she now requested Crawford to take 
the full and entire management of her affairs, and to 
see how much, if anything, could be made out of the 
confused and neglected matters of her property. 

When Mary looked down the long vista of lawsuits 
that were talked of, gleaning some slight idea as to what 
they were all about, and the expense of them, ’she saw 
that her mother would be for years, perhaps, in very 
straitened circumstances, and she resolved to depend 
upon her own exertions. Fortunately she was thor- 
oughly educated, had good health, and was of a hopeful 
disposition. If a beautiful girl, without fortune, might 
188 


189 


The Knife, 

liave reasonably looked to marriage as a solution of a 
woman’s life problem, she certainly might. Her fea- 
tures were those that a Cleomenes might have coveted 
for his Venus. Her soft brown hair, that the enamored 
sun transformed into a floss of gold; her tender blue 
eyes, pure and passionless; her light form swaying with 
a rhythmic grace, made all eyes linger upon her pres- 
ence. But dowerless beauty is not always an irresistible 
power. Too many rich suitors look for rich wives. 
They do not often meet with poor maidens, and when 
they do, if these maidens have beauty, it is seen under 
the unattractive circumstances incident to poverty, or 
to the perils practicable to wealth. The sons of our 
industrial classes are educated out of labor. Education 
makes work dreadful. Some rather drift into risks of 
crime. A secular, godless system of ideas demoralizes 
society; the poor no longer respect the poor, and society 
is being swept — whither? 

Mary Carson, as she was known, was thrown into the 
life struggle in this state of social corruption. How will 
her beauty, grace, refinement and culture serve her 
efforts! Without revealing her purpose to save her 
mother from pain, she summoned all her courage, and 
applied to one of the trustees of the public schools for 
a place as teacher. She was too late — he had promised 
his vote to another. He told her that qualifications 
were not so important as the influence of some politician. 
She then called upon the Hon. Thomas Kroger, who 
was said to have influence, hoping that he might be 
uncommitted. 

Fortunately, and to the credit of human nature, he it 
said, that this strong, unprincipled man, holding an 
influence in the educational trusts of a large city, has 
but few imitators. Sooner or later such men are found 


190 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

out, and are dropped from public confidence. This one 
exceptional villain 2)roves the rule of tlie noble majority. 

Kreger would have been more than mortal if, without 
an unswerving conscience, the enormous aggregate of 
the school taxes, in his hands, did not corruj'tt the school 
system. 

Our noble women who are com2:>elled to teach for 
bread sometimes depend for their a2')pointment uj^on 
some men who are not always even of fair morality. It 
must be evident that it is only a question of time when 
the morals of the mixed characters of the 2’>olitical school 
boards, who have popularity enough to be elected, and 
the morals of the teachers and scholars, must gravitate 
more to the same level. 

In large cities, all elections are liable to fall into the 
hands of pot-house politicians, and to be managed for 
the most dishonest ends. There are notable exceptions, 
especially in elections 2)ertaining to the election to school 
boards and other educational interests. Resjionsible 
.men of all classes have sometimes prevailed and saved 
school matters from the degradation of common politics. 
But. this is not always the case. 

Kreger was struck with Mary Carson's fresh, sweet 
face and innocent manner, and told her that he would 
inquire and see what could be done, and to call again. 
He also told her that during certain business hours he 
was exclusively engaged in his professional duties, and 
that his office and joapers connected with outside matters 
were at rooms kept for that purpose, where ajiplicants 
could call more conveniently than at his jmblic office, so 
exposed to interruption — that after certain hours he 
devoted himself to other than legal business. These 
and other such reasons he gave for an apj^ointment at 
another j^lace. The fact was, this was all false. He 


191 


The Knife. 

had no special office for business. He could as well 
have answered Mary’s application then and there, as 
elsewhere at another hour. But this was not his pur- 
pose. As sometimes happens, he was a bad man in a 
^ood place. He gave Mary the number of a room on 

street, third story, over the most fashionable 

retail stores in the city. The first floor above the stores 
were rooms for miscellaneous offices, sewing rooms, quack 
doctors, sham dentists, cheap photograph galleries and 
agencies of various kinds. The third story were lodging 
rooms, and now and then an office of one kind or 
another. 

Thomas Kreger had temporary apartments here, to 
which he gave special invitations. His real rooms wei’C 
at the most fashionable hotels, and amidst the most 
respectable and proper surroundings. 

To Thomas Kreger Mary was only one of scores who 
had applied to him for his influence for places, and he 
hardly knew her name. All he thought of was that she 
had no political influence to command employment or 
resent insults, and that she was pretty, poor, and looked 
innocent. He did not know that poverty and beauty 
are what in this instance he found them to be — above 
temptation. 

When Mary reached the flight of stairs that led to the 
so-called office of Thomas Kreger, her heart fluttered 
with the anxieties of her uncertain step. She had never 
before acted for herself, and knew nothing of the world; 
and the number of offices, signs, and advertisements of 
ostensible business that she saw on reaching the first 
floor bewildered her, and almost made her retreat to the 
streets again. But she had gone thus far, and she 
reproached herself for foolish weakness, for hesitating 
to go bravely forward and know the result. 


192 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

She felt that there was a strong necessity to exert her- 
self, and she smothered her fears and reluctances, and 
forced herself up the next flight of stairs and knocked 
at the door of the given number. 

Kreger was expecting her, and at once admitted her 
himself, and asked her to be seated. She felt a name- 
less antipathy for his gallant manner, but she had gone- 
so far without consulting any one, and now the last step 
was reached, and she would know the result. 

He expressed his deep interest in her case, how he had 
tried to find a place for her, and would even yet ; but 
that under no circumstances need she despair — that 
youth, beauty and accomplishments need not be beggara 
— that these were royal endowments, and might com- 
mand situations — aye, more, they need not stoop to toil. 

‘‘There is no toil to a mind that does not dread it,’^ 
said Mary. 

“ Do you, so delicate and refined and alone, not dread 
the drudgery of toil, and all its worrying, wearying vexa- 
tions, when ease and enjoyment might be yours !” 

“I dread,” said Mary, “nothing more than your 
presence,” as the man stood revealed to her, and she- 
moved towards the door, which he reached before her. 

“ Stay a moment, if you please,” he said, with his. 
hand on the knob of the door, and turned the key. 

Had he known how many providences centered on 
Mary, he would no more have thought of harming her 
than he would have thought of striking at God. But 
there she was in his rooms, appointed by himself for the 
meeting. He could not think her so innocent of the 
world as not to have some idea as to where she was. 
There she was, standing near to him, with no one in 
hearing, or no one who would heed any scream in her 
distress. Mary’s indignation was not evident to his 


193 


The Knife, 

blinded feelings, and he inclined towards her to kiss 
her. As he did so the handle of a small dagger knife 
accidentally revealed itself in the breast of his vest. 

As quick as lightning she seized the knife and raised 
the blade before him. A fearless energy possessed her. 
Weak things oftentimes confound the strong. Power 
with women is in the motive, not the muscle. Life 
seemed with Mary to have its horrible crisis at that 
moment. Circumstances exposed her to peril, but grasp- 
ing the handle of the knife offered her by circumstance, 
she stood resolved upon certain safety. How, she did 
not define. That knife, whether for her assailant or for 
herself, enabled her to command the result. Though 
emergencies are conscious of no chronology, yet -a cen- 
tury of time seemed concentrated in that one moment, 
as she and Kreger confronted each other. Self preser- 
vation was the only impulse that moved her from second 
to second. Kreger stood amazed and alarmed at the 
extremity to which matters had unexpectedly gone. 
This was the blunder of his life. Who was this girl ? 
He had never thought for a moment or cared who she 
was. Mary Carson was no name of any people that he 
knew 'of importance, and he hoped that if any one 
sought to redress the insult he had offered to her, he 
could represent the whole matter as a mistake on her 
part of his intentions towards her. While thus ponder- 
ing the probable outcome of this event, she said in that 
tone of supreme command which purity summons to the 
voice : 

Open that door !” 

The coward glanced from her eye to the point of the 
knife in her hand, and he saw that he must succumb or 
go farther. He must let her go as his enemy, or kill 
and so silence her. But she had the knife in her hand, 


194 Judith Carson; or, Which ivas the Heiress. 

and desperation in her soul. In this strait of ugly alter- 
natives, not having wrought himself up to the most 
bloody turn to things, with more intellect than will at 
the moment, he unconsciously moved from the door, 
and Mary unlocked it, bounded through it, and down 
stairs into the street. 

As an act is never done acting, we shall hear more of 
this matter hereafter. 

After Mary’s escape, Kreger stood biting his lip at 
his folly, and then a slight paleness grew upon his face 
as he thought of the danger yet before him. It was evi- 
dent that this girl was pure, and he correctly conjec- 
tured that she would most probably, for her own sake, 
say nothing about his conduct, or where she had been. 
If she did complain, he could only put on a bold front, 
and brave the consequences. At all events he thought 
it expedient to go out of town for a few days, and await 
developments. 

Great is the potency of circumstances, shielding some, 
exposing others, and enlightening all. Mary had known 
of bad people only by report. She was now to know 
them by contact. Good people are indeed willing to 
help the helpless, even if they shrink from a personal 
care of them; but they may be called upon to help until 
they become weary. Frequent cries for assistance har- 
row their sympathies and exhaust their patience. 

While beauty is a power to the strong, it is a peril to 
the weak. 

Mary went out into the street, resolving to ask no 
more official favors. Popular elections had no certain 
attraction for good men. One villain unquestionably 
was in office directing the education of the land. One 
of his failures is here recorded. He and God only know 
all his successes. 


195 


The Knife. 

Once in the street, the shadows of night, like the bit- 
terness of her experience, were falling fast around her; 
but she remembered the promise that, as thy day so 
shall thy strength be; ” and she looked up into the clear, 
cold sky, growing darker and darker, with the strong 
iaith that God would in some way make her strong to 
bear or provide a way of escape. And as the stars, one 
after another, like holy thoughts in the soul of the 
saintly, began to sanctify the heavens, she walked on 
and on, out far from the crowded quarters, to be alone- 
with her shadowed soul, and the presence of the Father 
who counted every tear that sprang from sorrow’s foun- 
tain, and every star that dropped from His girdle of 
glory. In this half conscious rapture of thought and 
devotion, she lifted her eyes and found before her the 
long line of lighted windows of St. Luke’s Hospital, like 
so many phrases and periods of a great sermon. It 
flashed upon her remembrance that a corps of sisters, 
unbound by vow, but prayerfully consecrated to the 
nursing care of the sick, here found shelter and service, 
and it suddenly occurred to her that here God might 
accept the offering of her sacrifice, and shelter her 
beneath the aegis of His altars. 

Like an inspiration this thought filled her soul with 
light and assurance. She retraced her steps home. 
Fearful of the uncertain world, its indifference and its 
vileness, she would go to the church for protection and 
for guidance. Here holy men and saintly women should 
be her counsellors, and the cross her refuge. 

The care of the sick seemed to be what God had for 
her to do. She made her application and so won to 
herself the authorities in her conferences with them, 
that as soon as practicable she was received into the sis- 
terhood, and for one year at least, the term for which 
their pledges were given, she was shut up from the world. 


196 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

It was the light of a blessing to see her, dressed in Or 
neat, close-fitting dark dress, with a small plain cap, 
white cuffs and collar, without other ornament than 
that of a meek and quiet spirit, going through her ward, 
seeing that medicines were given as directed, nourish- 
ment prepared and brought as needed, with a smile of 
encouragement to this depressed invalid, a comforting 
promise read to those in whom the light of life dickered 
low, and everywhere exhibiting a sweetness and grace of 
manner that made the sick bless her presence at their 
bedside, as chained captives would a ribbon of sunlight 
on the shadowed pavement of doom. All their eyes fol- 
lowed her in love. She ministered to the mind and 
heart, and all obeyed her with delight. 

The power of beauty is divine. 

When her mother and Crawford Carpenter heard of 
Mary’s step they were astonished, and sought in every 
way to induce her to recede; but in vain. She was 
immovable. She had lived a cloistered life for so many 
years, and indeed all her life, that she seemed at home 
and happy when the world was shut out, and she was 
relieved of all the hollowness of society and the vileness 
of ruder life. 

They knew nothing of her affair with Kreger. Craw- 
ford Carpenter sought Mary with a determination to 
make her his wife at once if possible; but she had com- 
mitted herself to duty in the hospital for one year, and 
she determined to discharge it to the end. 

Crawford had ceased to care whether Mary was 
Laroche’s or Parram’s, Ina’s or Judith’s child. He 
found that his feelings were not in her parents, but in 
her. He was as often at the hospital as he felt was con- 
siderate for her, but not as often as the loneliness of the 
world where she was not, would have prompted him 
to be. 


197 


The Knife, 

As to Mary, her nature was like a waveless lake, glass- 
ing the image of all celestial things, and beautiful in 
its own sequestered tranquility. 

When Crawford Carpenter tried to bring Mary to a 
decision in his favor, he had photographed himself on 
her soul as the sun paints itself upon the petals of the 
rose. She remembered all that he was doing for his 
father, now broken in health and without means, and 
his mother and sister, and she suppressed the voice of 
the deep love with which he had inspired her. 

In one of these conversations, in which he urged his 
suit, she said: know that others who are very dear 

to you have a prior claim. I have no fortune to bring 
to you to aid in carrying the additional burthen our 
marriage would bring upon you. Let us wait until we 
both have more light, and you fewer burthens or more 
strength.’’ 

‘‘^But,” said Carpenter, “there is a helping energy 
in the sunlight. There is no weight in the perfume, 
there is no hindrance in melody, and no disappointment 
like vain love.” 

So she thought as she looked upon his splendid pres- 
ence and saw his large eyes grow tender as they turned 
to her. But she must feel that she was no burthen to 
the one she could love, as she could Crawford. 

How often do we see people exactly suited to each 
other, sometimes, out of the best but mistaken senti- 
ments, drift apart, thus either making life a failure or 
very long interrupting the currents of events, as we 
would have those events to be? 


CHAPTEK XX. 

A CHAPTER MAINLY FOR LAWYERS. 

The first step Crawford Carpenter took, after getting* 
back to work in his office, was to get copies of the settle- 
ments made by Judith’s husband’s father and her father,, 
respectively, and of the record of the suit for divorce, 
and to follow up the disposition of the property once^ 
belonging to these parties. He discovered, as the reader 
knows, that George Parram’s father settled property on 
Judith so long as she remained the wife of his son; that- 
after the divorce, George Parram regarding Judith no 
longer as his wife, he, as heir to his deceased father’s, 
estate, sold the property, and used the proceeds for his. 
own benefit. He also discovered that Judith’s father, 
as a return compliment for what George Parram’s father 
had done for his daughter, had settled property on him,, 
the husband of his daughter, and their heirs, making 
what is called in law a qualified or base fee; and that he 
had also converted this property, after the death of 
Judith’s father, and after the divorce — the words, 
husband of my daughter Judith” used in the deed to 
Parram having been regarded merely as words of descrip- 
tion, and not as words of limitation. 

As to the matter of divorce he found that after George 
Parram returned to America, bringing with him tha 
child born of his marriage with Judith, as he supposed, 
he procured an act of the legislature making desertion 
a ground of divorce — a ground that had not been known 
to the law at the time the marriage contract was con- 
cluded. This legislative act was afterwards repealed*. 


A Chapter Mainly for Lawyers. 199 

He found that the bill for divorce set forth the fact that 
a child was born of the marriage whose dissolution was 
sought by the bill. But, that as usual, the child had 
not been made a party to the suit by guardian ad litem, 
even though its interests were adverse to those of its 
father, its natural guardian. He saw that J udith, though 
‘‘beyond the four seas,’’ had been only constructively 
served with notice of the suit by publication in a news- 
paper which she never saw. He discovered that the suit 
had not been defended, and, of course, no alimony 
allowed her, nor support decreed for the child. The 
bill simply went by default, and Parram, her husband, 
got any decree he chose to ask for. Now, what was to 
be his first step, if any? But for that divorce, Judith 
would have, as wife, all her property which had been 
settled on her as wife, at her marriage. He could recover 
that property better by annulling the decree of divorce, 
if it could be done, than by any other proceeding. Col- 
laterally the divorce could not be questioned. As it 
stood, the law would not recognize her as wife, in any 
suit or ejectment for property claimed in that relation. 
The divorce must, therefore, be attacked in a direct 
proceeding. 

The most formidable difiiculty in his way was the 
lapse of over seventeen years since the decree was ren- 
dered. To make all sure, his first step was to procure 
an act of the legislature then in session, declaring that 
any decree of divorce against an absent party, except 
where there had been personal service of the subpoena, 
might be reviewed at any time after the absence had 
ceased, and while both parties remained alive and un- 
married. 

He thought that if the husband could procure special 
legislation as against the rights of the wife, the wife 


200 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

might justifiably resort to the same kind of special leg- 
islation affecting remedies as against the husband. Leg- 
islation as to remedies do not impair the obligation of 
existing contracts, or ex post facto, create penal respon- 
sibility. 

The result was a petition in the nature of the old Bill 
of Eeview, bringing up the whole case again, upon the 
averment of fraud and upon errors apparent, as alleged, 
on the face of the record. The prayer of the bill was 
that the decree of divorce might be annulled, and the 
specific prayer that George Parram, who was absent no 
one knew where, might, by order of the Court, be 
required by publication to answer said bill; that the 
child of said marriage might also be made a party, and 
for such other and further relief as might be right. 

As George Parram was not directly represented by 
counsel, having put in no appearance, the argument of 
Crawford Carpenter was ex parte and more to assist the 
Court than to resist counsel. 

Most readers will not be interested in the technical, 
legal argument of this chapter and can skip to the last 
six paragraphs of it without losing the thread of the 
story. 

Crawford Carpenter, on the day set for the hearing 
of the case, in the assembled presence of a large number 
of the bar, drawn to hear the counsel upon so novel a 
proceeding, arose and submitted to the Court, substan- 
tially, the following argument: 

Before proceeding to state the grounds upon which 
the plaintiff expects to annul the decree divorcing her 
from her husband, let me anticipate,’’ said Carpenter, 
^^any censure for making the attempt in his absence. 
This is the place in which the plaintiff must seek to 
right herself, if anywhere; and this is the first moment 


A Chapter Mainly for Lawyers. 201 

in which she could speak since her return from a dis- 
tant hemisphere, where the violence and disloyalty of 
her husband drove her from his protection, and made 
her hide from his knowledge and pursuit. No longer 
able to endure the protracted strain upon overtaxed and 
exhausted powers; poor, homeless and crushed, she 
kneels before the law for rights she has been reluctant 
to assert, for the redress of injuries she has too long 
endured, and for an open way to bread, shelter and rai- 
ment. This hour is the only one when the contest would 
have been at all equal. The great wealth of the defend- 
ant gave to him the advantages of preparation. The 
power he gained by driving her to the misery of flight 
from his blows and infidelities — the uncounselled errors 
of judgment which she made in her unutterable wretch- 
edness; the maddening desire to keep her child from his 
ruinous care — all these have made her hesitate long 
indeed, but she hopes she has not come too late. 

‘‘She would not seek to annul the divorce in his 
absence, which she has not caused, as he sought and 
obtained it in her absence, which he did cause, if it were 
possible to command his presence. The issue is not 
upon any new facts, but upon the legal errors of the old. 
The record is present, and in that is her case. 

Not to be too professional or tedious, the reader may 
understand that the points of this proceeding, by which 
Judith’s counsel expected to to open her way for the re- 
covery of property, to which she would be entitled as 
wife, if the decree of divorce could be annulled, were 
simply these: 

First, that the statute under which the divorce had 
been granted was unconstitutional and void, because it 
was passed subsequent to the making of the marriage 
contract, and retroactively impaired its obligation. 


'Z02 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

is the policy of the law to favor marriage and dis- 
courage its dissolution. 

‘^In 4 Mo., 120, marriage is held to be more than ar 
status or the grade of political citizenship; more than a 
relation, which may be transient; but it is there held to 
be a contract whose obligation no law can impair. 

Furthermore, this special statute brought the case of 
alleged desertion under the provisions of a law already 
existing, prohibiting the remarriage of the offending 
party, and operated as an ex post facto penalty. The 
statute under which this divorce was obtained was un- 
constitutional in that it impaired the obligation of an 
existing contract; it violated a principle of universal 
law, in that it was retroactive as to the contract, and ex^ 
post facto as to the penalty.’’ 

Kreger asked if the Legislature might not dissolve the 
marriage relation, might it not change the marriage 
contract? 

Crawford Carpenter replied: The marriage relation 
is unchangeable in the unchangeable marriage contract. 
Then we must consider it, not as a social relation or a 
religious sacrament, hut merely as a civil contract, to be 
made and sustained like any and all other contracts. 
The law of a contract, when not contrary to public 
policy, is the contract itself, and all contracts must con- 
tain within themselves the law of their dissolution. 
The courts can no more unmake a contract than they 
can make one. They can say when a contract has been 
executed or has expired, or why no contract ever ex- 
isted; and they can award damages for its violation. A 
contract is held to incorporate within itself all existing 
and pertinent laws; hut it cannot incorporate non-exist- 
ence. Things that succeed cannot be a part of that 
which precedes. To-morrow cannot be a part of to-day. 
Non-existence cannot be a part of existence. 


A Chapter Mainly for Lawyers, 203 

‘‘As the secular law holds marriage to be merely a 
civil contract, theoretically it includes the agreement of 
the parties and all existing laws pertaining to marriage, 
and these only; and its obligations are complete at the 
time of its formation. Any law subsequently enacted, 
putting the dissolution of the marriage upon grounds 
not known to the law at its formation, cannot affect pre- 
vious contracts without retroacting; and so odious is 
such legislation that the organic law of the constitution 
expressly forbids the passing of any ex post facto law in 
matters of crimes, or any law impairing the obligation 
of contracts in matters ex contractu. 

“As to marriages already existing, the law cannot, as 
we have said, make that a ground of dissolution which 
was not known to the law as such at the time the mar- 
riage contract was complete, unless the contract itself 
is supposed to include not only the agreement of 
the parties and existing laws, but also an implied 
authority to the legislature to enact new grounds of 
its dissolution, or an implied agreement of the parties 
that they will be bound anticipatively by whatever laws 
may be made in the premises. If such implications can 
be made in marriage contracts, from which, of all others, 
the morality of society requires they should be excluded, 
why may they not be made in all other contracts? But 
if the constitution forbids the enactment of any law im- 
pairing the obligation of any other contract, a fortiori^ 
would it not prohibit the impairing the obligation of the 
marriage contract? The marriage relation is indissolu- 
ble in the indissolubility of the marriage contract.’’ 

Thomas Kreger, in the suit for divorce was only as 
amicus curice. He was afterwards counsel for Ina and 
Emma. He asked if it was not competent for the legis- 
lature to pass laws making new grounds of divorce to 


204 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

apply to the guilt of parties arising or continuing after 
the passage of the law. Admitting that at the time these 
parties were married desertion was no ground of divorce 
then recognized by existing law, and after the passing of 
the law making it such, desertion occurred or was con- 
tinued, would not the law apply? 

‘‘I answer, no!’’ said Crawford Carpenter. Ex- 
presio unius est exclusio alterius — the expression of one 
thing is the exclusion of another. 

The parties had the subject matter of grounds upon 
which the marriage contract they were making might be 
dissolved, distinctly before them. The marital laws ex- 
isting at the time said that their marriage contract 
might be dissolved for such and such causes. They are 
supposed to have agreed with each other that their mar- 
riage contract might be dissolved for these causes, and 
by implication they excluded the conclusion that it 
might be dissolved for any other causes, whether then 
known to the law or not. The expression of these 
causes excluded all others. The only plausible reason 
for assuming the validity of the legislation under which 
this divorce was granted, is an implied consent of the 
parties that the legislature might make such laws, or an 
implied agreement of the parties to abide by any law that 
might be passed upon the marriage relation. 

^‘But if, as I have said, such implications are to be 
made in marriage contracts, why not in all? If they can 
be made in this or any other contract, then the legisla- 
ture makes the contract for the parties, and not the 
parties themselves — a proposition for which no one 
would contend. No public good could be advanced by 
such fickleness and surprises of the law. New prescrip- 
tions of law ever look to the future and never to the 
past. A contract that was supposed would continue for 


A Chapter Mainly for Lawyers, 205 

life, ought to so continue, . in every way you can look 
at it, for the sake of society, the parties themselves and 
the children that they may bring into the world. 

As a contract no subsequent legislation can effect it, 
retroactively, even if it could as a relation. But the 
legal theory that marriage is a civil contract merely, 
puts legislative interference with it as a civil relation as 
much out of its control as any other civil contract. 
Society, in secularizing marriage has overreached itself; 
and instead of keeping a police over it as a relation, it 
has precluded itself from dissolving it as a contract. 
Relations are regulated by the state that makes them; 
contracts are not.’’ 

If this law,” remarked Kreger, “ may be deemed 
retroactive as to this marriage, it certainly is not as to 
the act of desertion, which continued after its enact- 
ment. Every day or moment of continued desertion, 
after the enactment, was an act after the enactment of 
the law.” 

But,” replied Carpenter, at the time of making 
this marriage contract, desertion was no cause of its dis- 
solution, and no statute of the state could put that into 
the contract, which the parties to it did not put in it. 

is asked, if desertion, begun before a statute is 
passed, be continued afterwards, would not this remove 
the objection to this statute as retroactive? Why should 
it? The continuance is in the beginning. The husband 
cannot take advantage of his own wrong. He continues 
what he drove the wife to begin. The wife does not 
desert or continue to desert when driven by the husband 
from home; expulsion is not desertion.” 

Kreger. — ‘‘ That is a question of fact.” 

Crawford Carpenter. — The point is that no question 
of fact or law subsequent to the formation of a marriage 


206 Judith Carson; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

contract, and not contemplated at the time, can go back 
into it or retroactively dissolve it. A husband cannot 
be permitted to insult his wife by gross infidelity, beat 
her, and drive her to madness and flight, and then claim 
that her continued flight after the passage of a law, pro- 
cured by himself, making desertion a ground of divorce, 
is a new offense under such law, and within its scope 
and intendment. After a marriage contract has been 
made, no subsequent law or agreement of the parties can 
affect it in any way. It is, and must ever remain, what 
they made it and nothing more nor less. If ever dis- 
solved, it must be for causes then known to the law and 
no others. So much for marriage as a contract.’’ 

But why,” inquired Kreger, does the plaintiff seek 
an annulment of the decree of divorce? Her husband 
was divorced from her, not she from her husband. As 
to many property rights, she is still the wife of the 
defendant. ” 

Can a woman be a wife, if she has no husband?” 
replied Carpenter. The conflict and confusion of the 
numerous decisions upon this question are amazing. 
To say that a contract of marriage, or any other con- 
tract, can be dissolved as to one party and not as to the 
other, is peculiar reasoning. Husband and wife are cor- 
relative. If one is not, the other is not. To say that 
the guilty party in the dissolution of a marriage contract 
shall not marry again, is to affix a restriction in the 
nature of a penalty, but the restriction is not because 
the party so forbidden remains a married person. 

Has the state no power,” rejoined Kreger, ^Ho 
declare upon what conditions any contract may be dis- 
solved?” 

Carpenter answered: ''No and yes. No as to all 
existing contracts, and yes as to all contracts made sub- 


A Chapter Mainly for Lawyers. 207 

sequent to the enactment of the statute — that is,- when 
not ex post facto or retroactive. But to go on — the 
question in law always is not what has been announced, 
hut what ought to have been announced. The courts 
are never to be supposed to have announced as law, that 
which is universally unjust, and an outrage upon the 
innocent and the helpless. The centres of law and 
righteousness are the same. Law has not its sanction 
in the weight of authority. Like light, it is what suits 
all, and what all have. It has neither locality nor chro- 
nology; but it is what is essentially and eternally right, 
or as Burke calls it, an ‘immutable, pre-existing law, 
prior to all our devices and prior to all our contrivances, 
paramount to all our ideas and all our sensations, ante- 
cedent to our very existence, by which we are knit and 
connected in the eternal frame of the universe, out of 
which we cannot stir. This great law does not arise 
from our conventions or compacts; on the contrary, it 
gives to our conventions and compacts all the force and 
sanction they have.’ ” 

Second, there was no legal ground for service of suit 
upon Judith by publication. The bill of Parram’s, for 
bis divorce, was fatally defective or demurrable, in that, 
while blaming Judith, he did not explicitly say that he 
bimself was without blame. When a mob made accu- 
sation against a woman, the Master laid down the rule 
that he might first cast a stone at her who was himself 
without guilt. In legal phrase, he who asks equity 
must do and must have done equity. George Parram 
not only charged Judith with desertion as a ground of 
divorce, but also urged that desertion to obtain an order 
to serve her with notice of his suit of publication. But 
as he had the form of swearing to the truth of his bill, 
de did not state as clearly as he should have done, that 


208 Judith Garmi; or. Which was the Heiress. 

she was not absent by his act, or that on his part there 
was no contributing cause in his acts of cruelty — in 
other words, that what he called her desertion, was not 
his expulsion. The presumption of the law of common 
sense is, not only that the party knows his own actions, 
but that he has made out the best case for himself that 
he can. If he does not aver innocence where innocence 
is necessary for his recovery, the presumption is that he 
has no innocence to aver. Crawford Carpenter offered 
the affidavit of Judith to prove what, in effect, the bill 
admitted by not denying, that she had been cruelly^ 
treated by him, and driven into flight and exile. 

For the want of a clear averment of his own blame- 
lessness, he had no case against his wife, and it was error 
to grant an order to serve the absent Judith with notice 
of this suit of her husband, by publication. It was a 
further and consequent error, as there had been no legal 
service, either personal or by publication, to proceed a& 
if Judith was in default. Judith had never been legally 
before the court, and therefore the decree of divorce 
against her should be annulled and forever set aside. 

Third, that all the parties in interest were not parties 
to the original bill, inasmuch as the child born of the 
marriage, as announced in the said original bill, and in 
the Bill of Eeview, was not represented by any guardian 
ad litem, or anyone capable of resisting the decree and 
of protecting its interests. 

‘^But, if the Court please, from the merely civil con- 
tract which the parties form, there results a civil rela- 
tion which society forms for them. The contract is in 
their power to make, but the relation is not in their 
power to dissolve. Both parties are disabled by the very 
contract itself from contracting with each other. Their 
contract, conflned to themselves, has created a relation 


209 


A Chapter Mainly for Lawyers, 

which includes the world. In this relation, any child 
that may he born participates with claims supreme to 
all else beside. A divorce of husband and wife before 
the law, though it cannot separate the father and the 
mother in the child, separates them before the world. 

What jurisdiction will the courts take of civil rela- 
tions? Are they in the nature of contracts, or are they 
upon an equal footing with contracts? And if so, do 
not children have a legally demandable attitude to this 
great relation? I contend that the child of this mar- 
riage should have been made a party to any proceeding 
seeking its dissolution.’’ 

Did not the father,” interrupted Kreger, as nat- 
ural guardian, represent the child in this suit?” 

‘^No man,” replied Carpenter, '^can represent both 
his own and an adverse interest. In relations, as in 
contracts, each one represents only the rights on his 
own side.” 

‘^In divorce matters,” observed Kreger, ^‘what rights 
have children?” 

‘‘Who has so many?” said Carpenter. “Parents 
marry for their own pleasure. They have an interest in 
each other’s person, health, fame, and continuance of 
life. Can the children whom they bring into the world 
have less? Do they not include and represent both par- 
ents in inseparable mystery? 

“ This refers,” said Kreger, “ to the remedy.” 

“What could more refer to the rights ?” asked Car- 
penter. 

“Is there a single precedent for such a position?” 
inquired Kreger. 

“ The law is in the principle, not the precedent,” was 
the answer. 

“ On the contrary, law is in the precedent, not in the 
principle,” interposed Kreger. 


210 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

‘‘There must be’’ replied Carpenter, “a principle 
which God makes, before there can be a. precedent, which 
man makes. 

“ Man may make arbitrary rules, but he can no more 
make laws for man than he can make laws for matter; 
there is one lawgiver.” Law is the rule of action made 
necessary by human relations ; and God precribes the 
law in prescribing the relation. 

“I contend that this divorce was granted, as appears 
on the face of the record, in violation of every right of 
the unrepresented infant child. 

“Children have the same right in this contract that 
the wife has. They have the right to protection, main- 
tenance and education ; and at least they have the right 
to be parties before the law, as they are to be so long 
kept in custody — they have the right to ask the court 
not to dissolve a relation and annul a contract which 
disgraces them. They have a direct right to a continu- 
ance of a relation which called them into being, and 
whose respectability is a part of their weal or woe. 

“ A marriage concludes and consummates a contract 
between the immediate parties, a relation between them 
and society, and a supreme springing covenant with the 
offspring thereof as they come into being. It is a coven- 
ant existing in nature above all municipal institutions. 
The law of its inviolability has its seat in the bosom of 
God, and its voice is the harmony of the world. There- 
fore this decree is void, because its record shows that 
the child, the most interested party of all, was not before 
the court, represented by anyone authorized to resist 
the decree. 

“ If it be said that the court is the guardian of infants 
in all suits before it, there is no record in this record 
that the rights of the infant child born of the marriage 


A Chapter Mainly for Latvyers, 211 

'Were considered, beyond giving tlie custody of it to her 
father.” 

The conclusion of his argument was, that the divorce 
was invalid, as all the parties immediately interested 
were not before the court, and as to that child and its 
mother, the marriage still existed in law, and the sale 
of the property by Parram, derived, as we have seen, 
from his father, conveyed no title. The legal authorities 
by Carpenter are omitted as uninteresting to the general 
reader, and so are the replies of opposing counsel. 

The only novelty in the argument was in Carpenter's 
points. The more the legal points were discussed by the 
lawyers, the less certain were the defendants of defeating 
the bill. Some lawyers thought them tenable in princi- 
ple — others untenable in precedent. But lawyers will 
differ. 

Fourth, that one Emma Laroche, claiming to be 
Emma Parram, and the child of Ceorge and Judith 
Parram, was not their child, but that the true child had 
been in the care of the mother, Judith Parram, and was 
then living, and the prayer was that both said Emma 
and Mary might be made parties to this suit. 

It would not interest the general reader to give all the 
technicalities of the case or of ifcs trial. Crawford Car- 
penter successfully fought off many cross-bills, and bills 
of interpleader, and had his chance upon the naked ques- 
tion of divorce or no divorce. The only other question 
that became involved was the one raised by Thomas Kro- 
ger, counsel for the child of Ina, known as Emma Par- 
ram. She, by petition, asked to be allowed to interplead 
by guardian ad litem in the absence of her father, claim- 
ing that she, and not the one calling herself Mary Par- 
ram, alias Mary Carson, was the child born in the 
wedlock of Ceorge Parram and Judith his wife. Her 


312 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

petition set forth that she had always been taught to 
regard her mother as a most unnatural and hateful 
woman — that neither the said Judith nor any relative, 
if she had any, ever took the least interest in her welfare 
as a child, or even in her existence. That she looked 
upon her father as her only living parent ; and as he, 
for reason sufficient to himself and the law, had once 
divorced the plaintiff, she, as a party, disclaimed all 
right in another to question the divorce. 

Emma, whether the daughter of Ina, or not, had really 
been taught this both by Parram and by Ina ; and she 
had a dread or rather abhorrence of Judith, as her nat- 
ural or unnatural mother, and thought — and perhaps 
wished — her dead. She never for one moment supposed 
that Ina, her devoted nurse, was in fact her mother. 
Mary, on the contrary, had never known anything, good 
or bad, of her father. His name had never been men- 
tioned. 

The court upon presentation of this petition sent to 
the Keferee the question of fact, as to which was the child, 
and proceeded with the main question, permitting both 
Emma and Mary to be heard by counsel so far as their 
interests were before the Court. 

The Bar were divided in opinion as to the principle of 
the ground taken by Carpenter. Some pronounced them 
absurd, but others, among whom the Court was suspect- 
ed to be numbered, thought them well taken. Nothing 
is law but what ought to be law. Lines of decisions 
that state the law radically wrong are overruled in time 
by other corrective lines, or by statutes, that state the 
law radically right. Law, like everything else, evolves 
its own perfection. It moves gradually like the sun ; 
but it moves. 

So sharp became the conflict of opinion among mem- 


213 


A Chapter Mainly for Laywers. 

bers of the profession, that it was thought some outside 
questions of property that might arise out of this case, 
would go off upon compromises. 

. The Court took the case under advisement, and 
exhaustively studied the principles that should guide its 
judgment. After mature deliberation of weeks, it deliv- 
ered the following opinion and decree : 

While recognizing to the utmost the doctrine of 
stare decisis, yet it is far more important that the law 
should be seen to be right rather than that precedents 
should be consistent. The progress of the world is no 
less in the correction of its errors than in the discovery 
of truth. If in the willful individualism of a people 
exercising an unmanageable liberty, the disruption of 
the relation which the most enlightened nations have 
over deemed the most sacred, has been demoralizing even 
to licentiousness; the good, even the existence of society, 
requires a correction of popular sentiment, and if need 
be, a revision of the statute law itself. But in this case, 
the Court is driven upon no questionable ground. The 
un constitutionality of the law upon which this divorce 
was granted, seems to the Court most obvious. If retro- 
active legislation as to marriage can be allowed under 
the constitution, so it may in principle as to all other 
contracts, and no vested right would be secure. 

‘^As the plaintiff in this bill has been ‘beyond the 
four seas,’ and by the cruel act of the husband as alleged, 
was never before the court ; she was never divorced. 
Her marriage state has continued, and no limitation 
has run against her. It is unnecessary to consider the 
second point raised by counsel as to the necessity of 
making children parties to proceeding for tlie divorce 
of their parents, as the other is sufficient ; though the 
Court is strongly of the opinion that the child should 


214 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

have been made a party to the proceeding for a divorce. 
It is, therefore, decreed by the Court that its former 
order decreeing a dissolution of the marriage contract 
between George Parram and Judith, his wife, rendered 

at the term of this court, in the year , be, and 

the same is hereby declared null and void, and is hereby 
forever set aside ; and that the said Judith is hereby 
restored to each and to all of her rights as wife of the 
said George Parram.” It would be surprising if the 
legal reasoning of this chapter should be unanimously 
‘accepted as law. No legal reasoning ever is so accepted. 
Lawyers differ from each other. The courts differ from 
the lawyers and courts from courts. God only knows 
which at last is right. There would be no practice of 
law, if lawyers agreed as to what the law of this case is^ 


CHAPTEE XXI. 

WHAT FOLLOWED. 

The night after the decision mentioned in the last 
chapter, it came to the knowledge of old Aunt Kizzy, as 
it was talked over in the Carpenter family, and she broke 
out : 

I tole yer dat boy ’stonish yer all, sum day. Can^t 
fool ole Kizzy. I knowed he’d do sumthin’ fur hisse’f, 
’kase, when he fit me so, he showed he’s gwine to go 
’head. I fotch him up, I did. Bress his soul.” 

And away the old champion of Crawford went, talk- 
ing to herself : I knowed he’d ’splay hisse’f when he 

growed up. Dis chile knows. Dat she duz. Xo foolin’ 
wid Massa Crawford. ’Taint nuthin’ t’wat he’s gwine 
to do. Dis cums ’kase old Kizzy switch him and fotch 
him up right, and mak him ’have hisse’f. Dat boy’s no 
scrub. Dar’s good stock in him, dat’s sartin. He’s no 
poor white trash.” 

And so she went on talking to herself just as if the 
angels heard her ; and perhaps they did. 

We shall never see these old domestics again. History 
will perpetuate the odium of slavery ; Cod only will 
know of its mutual affections. 

At this decision of the Court the country was at first, 
of course, much amazed. Some lawyers thought it 
absurdly radical ; but as law is in all cases proverbially 
uncertain — lawyers as counsel on opposite sides differ- 
ing most vehemently, judges on the bench holding con- 
trary and dissenting opinions — it was not surprising 
that, as it was based upon principle, an increasing num- 
315 


216 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

ber thought it right. At all events, there was no one 
directly interested in contesting it except Emma, the 
reputed daughter of Parram. 

At Kreger’s suggestion, an -appeal was taken to the 
Court of Appeals, and there it was, whether reversible 
or not, when something occurred which, if true, was 
above all appeals or writs of error. 

* * ♦ ♦ sfc 

And now a part of the case was about to take a solu- 
tion outside of the Court House. 

Parram was in Europe, and had in vain sought death 
at the barricades, on the parapets, and in the open 
streets. He wrote to Judith, through the bankers, 
reporting his own death, and signed the name of Laroche, 
hoping to have that accepted as his fate, when the reve- 
lations as to his financial troubles should be made, and 
his property threatened. He supposed that more publi- 
city had been given to his condition than there really 
had been. To return home was, as he thought, to walk 
into prison. 

The alternative seemed to be flight, imprisonment, or 
death. But where fly ? Light and electricity had become 
the police of society, and there was no hiding place. The 
world is too much one country. Photography has made 
the world a portrait gallery for all whom it is most impor- 
tant for the world to know. 

His apprehension became morbid and arrest awaited 
him, as he feared, at every station ; and he fancied that 
every one who looked him in the face was a detective, 
shadowing his steps. By night and by day, he felt some 
invisible hand about to rest on his shoulder. His sleep 
became restless, his appetite failed, and he sought cour- 
age and beguilement in the fumes of opium and tobacco, 
and visions of hope in increased quantities of wine. He 


What Followed. 


217 


lived under excitement by day, and dreamed of horrors 
at night. His brain was filled with blood ; he thought 
of his cruelty to Judith, his infidelity, his blows, her 
flight, of their child whom he had defrauded, and the 
whole panorama of his life came up in one terrible 
picture. 

He never once thought of God — of repentance — of 
reparation, or atonement. He was held in his iniquity 
as by cords. There was no remedy here, and no hope 
hereafter. The guilty dread to look back, and cannot 
look forward. 

Probable arrest became a demon, pursuing him at 
every step. The future was a doom. In his conscious- 
ness of guilt he had sought to be ignorant of all behind 
him. His path led away into the dreadful darkness 
which veils the inevitable. 

Eather than look in the face men whom he had robbed, 
and society which he had led and despised, he preferred 
to confront death, with eternal but hidden horrors both 
for soul and body. He fancied that widows and orphans, 
who must go down with him, raised their toil-worn hands 
to smite him in the face. The Fiend of the Seine invi- 
ted the outlaw ; the lights of the city seemed to burn 
with a fierce glare and reveal to him the majesty of 
Authority ; hell below could not rend and torture him 
more than the hell within ; his crimes seemed to grow 
into personal furies and to glare upon him with their 
red eyes ; his victims were, like the eagle of Prometheus, 
eating into his heart ; the river demon opened its arms, 
promising safety and rest. 

How many deserted maidens, how many frail believers, 
how many remorseful penitents, now many affrighted 
fugitives, how many roofless, breadless, friendless waifs, 
alas ! how many walking under the abiding shadow of 


218 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

life’s misery, have turned in the darkness of tlieir despair 
and sought forgetfulness in the sleep of the tragic river. 

All the long night Parram had wandered round the 
light and dark streets of marvelous Paris, pondering his 
great and wicked failure of life, with unrecallable facts 
behind,' pushing him on to a felon’s cell or a suicide’s, 
grave. 

Wherever he went, there, like a pursuing phantom, 
stood memory with its placard, This is Parram the 
Bankrupt, Parram the Forger.” However fast he might 
walk, it kej)t step and place by his side. If he ran it 
leaped before him and stood in his way. Then the ter- 
rible Nemesis of hearing punished him. He fancied 
that way up in bell-towers, and down from domes which 
seemed to throw threatening shadows across his path,, 
there came weird proclamations of his guilt. 

Sunshine in the heart finds night a restful relief; but 
darkness within makes more dreadful the darkness with- 
out. Trouble is the pall of hope. Shadows brooding 
upon guilty memory drive men to madness and to death. 
Night is the hour for earnest suicides not altogether 
mad. Suicides for theatrical effect are mostly day 
horrors. 

Just before the dawn, the hour of all others when 
those who have homes are most soundly asleep, and 
those who have none are most desperately awake, a boat- 
man might have been seen pulling to the shore, having 
in tow a body of one of the sleepers of the Seine — that 
death couch of the miserable. On the shore a strangely 
acting man seemed to await the coming of the boat with 
surprised and peculiar interest. One near by would 
have seen on his countenance a shocked and appalled 
expression as the dead man, with eyes open and mind- 
less, as if staring hopelessly into a forfeited world, with 


What Followed, 


219 


limbs distorted by the throes of a last despair, and be- 
fouled with the slime of the flowing cess-pool, was drawn 
on land and lay in loathsome death at his feet. 

When the boatman went up the bank to report the 
flnding of the body and get his fee, the stranger stood 
by the corpse for a moment as if lost in some inward 
and perturbed purpose. He stooped over the dead man 
as if examining his pockets, and then hastily disap- 
peared. We shall learn more of him hereafter. 

From papers found on the body at the Morgue, no 
doubt would seem to exist as to the gloomy fate of Par- 
ram. This being duly certifled to America, the appeal 
abated, which Kreger, as counsel for Emma, had taken 
from the judgment of the Court annulling the decree of 
divorce of George Parram and Judith, his wife, which 
we have mentioned. Judith was not divorced, but was 
Parram really dead and she a widow ? W e shall fi nd out. 


CHAPTEE XXIL 

THE ESTATE. 

The most, in the way of property, that Crawford Car- 
penter expected to recover for Judith by . the setting 
aside of the decree of divorce, was that which had been 
settled upon her by her own and Parram’s father, so 
long as she was the wife or widow of his son. By the 
decree of the Court she was recognized again as the law- 
ful wife of George Parram, and could now claim the 
property settled on her at the marriage. 

But the case was only in part concluded forever by 
the reported death of Parram, which was heard of soon 
after the decree of annulment. 

There had been a reference of a question of fact to 
the investigation and report of the Eeferee — and that 
was, which was the child of George and Judith Parram, 
Emma or Mary? That was now to be settled. 

The reader has been aware that Crawford Carpenter, 
after his visit to Innsbruck, when he was on the search 
for Parram, learned from Erau Denker of the double 
exchange of the new born infants; one by Frau Denker 
and one by Judith herself. 

If the statements of Erau Denker were true, and there 
was nothing behind it, then the exchange that Judith 
had made really gave Judith’s child to Ina and Ina’s 
child to Judith; and Emma was, in fact, the child of 
Parram, and had been reared in her own home, and 
Judith’s morbid maternal feelings had caused her to 
make all her sacrifices for the wrong child. 

The settlement of the fact as to which was the heiress, 
220 


The Estate. 


221 


beiore the Referee, was now the point, and to Crawford 
Carpenter it had a painful outlook. 

What would the mothers, and especially Judith, say 
on learning that by the secret act of another their device 
had been in vain? Crawford Carpenter was persuaded 
that Mary was Tna’s child. 

To proceed before the Referee was to develop the 
truth — if they found out all that he had heard. 

After all, could the mothers be deceived? Was not 
the confession of Trail Gemahl untrue? Was it not his 
duty to accept the theory and belief of Judith rather 
than to allow the report of a gossiping peasant, way off 
in the Alps, to unsettle an accredited situation of mothers 
and children ? There was at best, as he thought at first, 
no great amount of property involved in the question 
of identity of these children. Anyway, Judith would 
get her own out of the settlements, and, after all, the 
mournfulness of Parram’s termination rather made him 
prefer, so far as his feelings towards Mary were con- 
cerned, that she should not prove to be the child of 
Parram. His concern was for the bitter and crushing- 
disappointment of Judith. 

But there might be no knowledge of Frau Denker, 
and the whole thing might go off upon the statements 
of the two mothers. 

Thus reasoning, he began to prepare for the settle- 
ment of the question of identity. Things often, if not 
always, settle themselves in very surprising ways. Man 
never settles anything. Do as he might, Crawford Car- 
penter never could have made the conjunctions that 
providence or fortune made for him. 

To Judith’s mind the question of identity was noth- 
ing. She thought everybody would at once receive 
Mary as her daughter, but Crawford Carpenter told her 
one day not to be too confident. 


222 J^idith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

‘‘Do you not see,” said he, ‘^that you have, by your 
own act, made Ina’s child the apparent heir to Parram ? ” 

“1 see,” said she. “1 had not thought of that be- 
fore.” 

‘^For seventeen years you have permitted the child of 
another to be received and known as your child. What 
evidence could you adduce, unless Ina should confess it, 
that you have not brought a false child to heir your 
husband’s property?” 

The best of evidence,” she replied. If Ina’s child 
were really mine, could it be supposed that I would 
bring a stranger to usurp her place and fortune? The 
fact that I would assert for another a claim to my hus- 
band’s name and estate as against the child of Ina, 
though she may have been reared in my husband’s house, 
is clear that I think the child not to be my child. ” 

Your long acquiescence in the position of Ina’s child 
in the house where your child ought to have been, would 
be taken as evidence that you had unnaturally aban- 
doned your child, as your husband cruelly said you had 
deserted him. I must have time to see how your mis- 
takes can be corrected, if at all. Your difficulties are 
seriously formidable. ” 

Crawford’s father, ever since his loss of health, had 
been compelled to give up active ministerial work and 
confine himself to quiet missionary visiting among the 
poor, and the sick, and strangers. His knowledge of 
the German and French languages took him much 
among foreigners. 

On the day after the great argument of his son, he 
was visiting among some Austrian families and found 
that the case and names as reported, and the points in 
the argument, were attracting attention even among 
that class. In one house he found a woman from near 


The Estate, 


223 


Innsbruck who asked him many questions about the 
<}ase, the special names of the parties, when the divorce 
was had, how old the child of the marriage was, and 
expressed the desire to see the lawyer in the case. 

Mr. Carpenter told his son of all this when he went 
home, and advised him to go and see the woman. 

The next morning Crawford was early at the humble 
quarters of the woman who had spoken with his father, 
and ]-emained there for a long while. When he left, 
there was a new strength to his plans. 

Keeping his own counsels, he now urged the investi- 
gation as to which was the child,- with all his ability. 
In the meanwhile, Thomas Kreger, as counsel for Emma, 
was not idle. 

Parram’s estate, if rumor could be believed, was not 
in so bad a condition as was at first reported. Emma's 
feelings were aroused to learn that another could dare 
question her right to her parentage and interfere with 
her lawful inheritance. 

Kreger participated in this feeling. When Emma’s 
eyes, like angry stars, would flash at the thought and 
mention of the surreptitious child now offered as the 
daughter of Parram, Kreger found that it kindled in 
him more fires than one. 

This half Italian nurse that had been to her as a 
mother, may not have done the very best for the higher 
sentiments and tender graces of character of Emma, but 
if a man once is mastered by a passion for the personal 
beauty of a woman, he considers but little her character, 
moral or psychological. Considerations of that kind 
must take place before love’s powferlessness is reached. 

It was somewhat so with Crawford and Mary. He 
loved Mary when it seemed to him almost certain that 
she was the child of Laroche, the villain, and Ina, the 
servant woman. 


224 Judith Carson ; or, Which loas the Heiress. 

Love that is deep and imperions, investigates no gene- 
alogies of its idol, and cares for no history. With her 
is all happiness, and without her is all wretchedness. 

% :J« * * * * 

“ If G-eorge Parra ni had waited! ’’ everybody said, who 
knew anything of his embarrassments. 

Let us go back a short time. When Crawford Car- 
penter returned from Europe, and more carefully looked 
into Parram’s affairs here, he saw the improbability of 
his assets meeting his liabilities unless they were most 
carefully managed; but if time could be given to dispose 
of everything to the best advantage, it was not at all 
unlikely that every claim upon him could be met dollar 
for dollar. The condition of things was kept in strictest 
confidence. He was not reported as he supposed he 
must have been, and as he knew himself liable to be re- 
ported, as a defaulter, or forger, or as having absconded. 

At the instance of the creditors, the estate was to go 
into the hands of some reliable administrator, like any 
other estate, and to be managed to the very best possible 
advantage; but who should be that administrator? 

Crawford Carpenter, at a meeting of the creditors of 
the estate, as attorney for the widow and a number of 
creditors, announced that he should take special care to 
see that the security on the administrator’s bond should 
be solvent and sufficient beyond peradventure, and he 
moved that a committee be appointed to be present at 
the listing of the assets, and that no listing be done in 
their absence. He said that he made the announcement 
that he did before any person was nominated, so that 
nothing personal might seem intended. 

His remarks were thoroughly approved, and the com- 
mittee appointed, of which he was chairman. 

As the estate was at first supposed to be insolvent,, 


The Estate, 


226 


none of the next of kin, if any, claimed the administra- 
torship; and, to the surprise and regret of Crawford, 
Thomas Kreger, the attorney who came to the bar at 
the same term that Crawford had, was appointed. He 
had been successful as a practitioner, and had made 
more out of his profession, financially, than Crawford 
had. He had been particularly attentive to the manage- 
ment of the estates of dead men and of minors, and of 
cases in bankruptcy. Such cases required less logic and 
less eloquence than the class of cases in which Crawford 
had been principally retained. 

The manipulation of accounts running through years 
is a care that requires great accuracy and admits of great 
dishonesty. But Crawford Carpenter knew the busi- 
ness and the man. If his bond was satisfactory, he 
could say nothing; but of that he must be quite sure. 
So when it was submitted, Crawford Carpenter promptly 
moved that it be doubled in amount, and the security 
quadrupled. 

The Court asked for information why he made such 
a motion. 

Because,’’ he said, I am beginning to see that the 
value of this estate will much exceed the amount of this 
bond, and if these bondsmen are of sufficient means to 
justify this responsibility, they certainly would not 
object to divide it with other good men. These, cer- 
tainly, are not all the solvent men in this community 
whom the administrator can procure.” 

The Court replied that the chairman of the commit- 
tee of creditors seemed so earnest in the opinion as to 
the insufficiency of the bond that he would increase it 
one-half and require more bondsmen, and that it would 
be competent for anyone having an interest, at any time, 
to have the security of the bond increased according to 
the development of the need. 


226 Judith Carson ; or, Which ivas the Heiress. 

Crawford Carpenter had, of course, to accept the 
order. But he had accomplished one thing, and that 
was the confidence and approbation of the creditors, and 
the moral effect upon Kreger that he was to be relent- 
lessly watched. 

When the listing began, Crawford was present every 
moment with his committee and their clerk, making 
minute records of every paper, document, and account, 
noting their value, and every other fact that could enter 
into the responsibility of the administrator. 

Among other assets was found five thousand shares 
in an undeveloped silver mine in California. This had 
no certain value. Careful memoranda of these shares 
were taken, their numbers, etc. Kreger said: 

Centlemen, this stock is hardly worth the paper 
upon which they are printed, especially with a view to 
the assessments that are always incident to such things.” 

“ But,” said Crawford Carpenter, ‘Hhese assessments 
are all paid up. They are worth listing, at any rate. 
Here is a note that the clerk must copy.” 

The note was in Parram’s hand writing, and as fol- 
lows : 

‘‘This day. Sept., 187-, sold my wife’s property at 

. This day, with the proceeds thereof, bought . 

— Kos. shares of California Silver Mining Stock.” 

Having used the money received for Judith’s property, 
the stock in equity became hers. 

The very stock above mentioned. 

Kreger saw the sleepless w^atchfulness of his old an- 
tagonist. He knew that he was neither timid nor in- 
competent. He knew that there could be no compromise 
with the determined sentinel watching his administra- 
tion, who could be neither scared nor blinded. It all 
meant distrust; but as he did not formally proclaim it. 


The Estate, 


221 


and acted only as an attorney had a right to act, he 
could take nothing offensively. 

The two men met each other strictly upon a business 
basis. No favors asked or shown. 

Having securely placed all on record and under ample 
security, Crawford Carpenter let the administrator pro- 
ceed to wind up the estate. At every monthly term of 
the Probate Court, Crawford Carpenter was present to 
examine the administrator’s report, and to see that he 
was using all diligence'to close the estate. 

His watchfulness was like Providence, counting every 
hair and noting every sparrow. 

When he saw anything objectionable, he objected; 
when he did not, he was silent. He never permitted 
one word of discourtesy or distrust of Kreger to pass his 
lips, nor one word of confidence. No one unacquainted 
with their school days could understand precisely the just 
course of Carpenter towards Kreger, but his watchful- 
ness of him, though inoffensive, was as remorseless as fate. 

At one of these short settlements or returns which, 
through Crawford Carpenter, the Court had ordered the 
administrator to make, Crawford Carpenter moved the 
Court to require the administrator to fortify his bond by 
additional security. He then showed a telegram from 
attorneys employed by him to watch the value of these 
stocks, informing him that they were advancing rapidly. 

The Court ordered the administrator to increase his 
bond; and so this went on until the stocks had advanced 
to the value of millions of dollars, and so had the secur- 
ity to the bond. 

The debts were all paid off with interest, leaving many 
millions surplus. But to whom were these millions to 
go? Was the child’s distributive share to go to Emma, 
Ina’s child, or to Mary, Judith’s child? 

Which was the heiress? We shall see. 


CHAPTEE XXIIL 


‘‘THIS IS THE CHILD.’’ 

Ina’s daughter, Emma, was, as the reputed child of 
Parram, in possession of the dwelling and much of the 
personal property of the estate, and she became so con- 
spicuous by the new turn that things took, as to warrant 
us in describing her more particularly. 

She was just eighteen, and, as might have been ex- 
pected from a mingling of German and Italian blood, a 
brunette; dark, passionate eyes, that told of Southern 
warmth and Northern intensity; she was of a lithe and 
not ungraceful figure, and was ever alert as a sentinel on 
duty. 

Gilded by the marvelous wealth so suddenly developed,, 
she naturally had society at her feet. 

The heiress of the late George Parram, whose crimes, 
unknown to the world, were all covered by a miracle of 
unexpected solvency, a not unusual occurrence in the 
bonanza days, Emma Parram, as she was known, was 
the goddess of the day. 

It was a matter a little noticeable too, that Thomas 
Kreger, the good looking young administrator of the 
Parram estate, of which she was the accredited heiress, 
had frequent occasions, in his ofiicial duties, to call and 
consult with this new star. 

Bright, witty and stylish, she enjoyed the incense of 
flattery and devotion now lavished upon her. 

Thomas Kreger had advantages over all who visited 
the Parram mansion. He had everything but the higher 
moral strength of mind and character. He had made a. 

328 


This is the ChiU:^ 


229 


strong speech — had managed business entrusted to his 
hands with success, certainly for himself, and had a 
rather popular strength. 

Physically, he was matchless. He was young, not 
over thirty or thirty-one years of age. For one so com- 
paratively young, he had done much for himself. 

But who was this claimant, calling herself Mary 
Parram, that had instituted a suit as heiress to these 
millions? 

Where had she been all these years? 

Upon Avhat proof can she base a claim adverse to one 
who had been reared by Parram himself, and taken from 
the very arms of his wife? 

These queries suggested that the suit could not be in 
earnest, that the setting forth of this new claimant was 
an act of revenge or for extortion. No one had ever 
heard of her before. 

It will be remembered that in the suit instituted by 
Judith to set aside the divorce, one of the questions that 
arose and had to be determined Avas, which one of these 
two girls, Emma or Mary, was the child of the marriage 
under litigation. To the settlement of this question 
Carpenter and Kreger now applied themselves. 

The struggle now was as that of gladiators for their 
lives. Both being men of tremendous energy and per- 
sistence, now engaged in one of the intensest mental and 
professional battles they could CA^er fight. Their mo- 
tives were the strongest known to the nature of man, 
woman, gold and fame. 

Both were inspired by the energy of passion and the 
industry of youth. 

The whole country was alive with the romance of 
the divorce and its annulment, the sudden and miracu- 
lous tornado of fortune that had risen over the combat- 


230 Judith Carson; or Which was the Heiress. 

ants, the marvelous surprises of events, and this struggle 
to which no one could see any certain end. 

Human testimony and human life make the result of 
all lawsuits uncertain. Every witness has a weaker or 
stronger motive to lie. Let us try them. 

In each man is an inner principle which shapes 
the outer act. Often bad men are two men — the one 
man looks upon is apparently right; the one God looks 
upon, inherently wrong. Good men may make mistakes 
of the intellect, but bad men will be sure to make mis- 
takes of the conscience. 

Crawford Carpenter and Thomas Kreger were ap- 
proaching a great moral trial of themselves, no less than 
of the case in hand. There are both compensations and 
retributions in the economy of the universe, — let them 
beware of the inevitable evolution of these laws, and 
seek that which lies behind all appearances, — Truth. 

Haman was hanged upon the gallows he erected for 
Mordecai. Greed is one thing, and gain is another. 
Let Phoebus hold tight reins, for he rides on the clouds. 

Now for the trial. 

Thomas Kreger, as counsel for Emma, had procured 
a continuance of the examination for several months, 
during which time the interest in the result had, by the 
sudden swell of fortune, become tremendously intensified. 
He had found all sorts of reasons to delay, and continu- 
ance from time to time been granted, secret agents had 
been sent to a distance for witnesses, some said to Eu- 
rope, and after repeated delays, obtained by Kreger for 
various causes, Crawford Carpenter found Kreger ready 
and confident. There was in his air the tell-tale pres- 
ence of conviction of certain victory. 

The examination attracted an immense throng to hear 
the testimony as to the identity of the heiress to five 
millions of property. 


This is the Child 


231 


Men do not know when they are to meet their sins, 
and when Kreger saw Mary, and that she was the possi- 
ble heiress to millions, he cowed before the one glance 
of her eyes, recognizing him. 

Both girls were there to be identified, and both 
mothers were there to identify them. 

When J udith saved her child from a vile husband by 
the trick of an exchange of children, she could not see 
that she might be giving the fortune of her own child to 
the child of a servant. The path of wrong is on ice. 

It was agreed that the two mothers should testify. 
To Crawford Carpenter it was a matter of indifference 
as to which should testify first. 

Why should not the two mothers’ testimony settle it? 
Each ought to know her own child. 

It was a study to see the calm and even smiling con- 
fidence of each counsel as each felt that he had a dead 
fall for the other. They were willing respectively to 
agree to almost anything so that the examination went 
on. 

Kreger proposed that Judith should testify first. 
This was agreed to, and Judith told her story as the 
reader might expect her to tell it. She, of course, 
swore positively that Mary was her daughter and the 
daughter of the late George Parram. She admitted the 
exchange of children, and gave her reasons for so baf- 
fling the cruelty of her husband. 

We need not linger on her testimony. The interest 
seemed to hang on Ina. Her statement as to the ex- 
change of the children did not differ from Judith’s. 
She and Judith met for the first time since they parted 
in the Tyrol. 

It is unsafe for interested witnesses to endeavor to 
help out counsel or change the theory of a case while on 


232 Judith Gar son ; or, Which was the Heiress, 

the witness stand. No lawyer can anticii3ate what a 
witness will Yolunteer to say when before the Court, un- 
der oath, in the presence of interested people, or con- 
fused by the manipulation of adroit cross-examination. 

If Judith testified, Ina must testify; but that was a 
risky thing. If Ina had stopped where Kreger expected 
that she .would stop, his testimony would have come out 
according to plan. He had told Ina to admit that 
Emma was her child; but Ina was no trained thinker, 
and did not see the full bearing of words. 

The only safety for such minds is to tell the truth. 
After getting on the stand, unable to be advised by 
wiser judgment, her dilemma rose up in her imagination 
and utterly confused her. 

All at once she felt that the public would see that she 
had been false to some one, either to Parram or to 
Judith. 

Kreger expected and instructed Ina to admit outright 
that Emma was not her child, and that she and Judith 
had deceived Parram. This would have credited the 
witness with honesty. 

If Emma was Judith’s child, Judith had been de- 
ceived; if she was Ina’s child, Parram had been deceived. 
To make Emma the heiress, she must be Judith’s child, 
not hers. 

Ina became confused, at the moment, and could not 
see how this tangle could be unraveled to the advantage 
of Emma. 

Kreger’s plan was to have Ina admit that Emma was 
her child, and that Parram had been deceived, while 
he was prepared to prove by the testimony of Frau 
Henker that both Ina and Judith had been deceived^ 
and Emma was Parram’s child, and Judith had Ina’s 
child. 


This is the Child,’’ 


233 


When Ina took the case out of Kreger’s management 
by trying to fix the fortune of her child, she only destroyed 
where she hoped to save. 

Her statements were, therefore, very surprising to 
Kreger when Crawford Carpenter cross-examined her. 
The desire to secure those millions to Emma at all haz- 
ards, was too much for her. 

Carpenter said he had but a few questions to ask the 
witness. So,” said he, you have known all these six- 
teen or eighteen years that you were deceiving George 
Parram, and that Emma was your own child deceitfully 
put upon him ! ” 

Kreger bit his lip. It was a most damaging question 
to her credit as a witness to any point. It would have 
been better for her and the interests of her child to have 
confessed the deception right there, and to have left the 
counsel to manage its effect ; but unable, even by signs 
from Kreger, to learn when to stop, she went on to say, 
what she had heard was to be proved, I knew that 
Frau Denker, our housekeeper, had exchanged the chil- 
dren before we did, when they were but a few days old 
and we were both too ill to care much about it.” 

To her confused reasoning this made Emma the child 
of Parram, and — the heiress. 

There was the cursed corrupter. It was too big a 
hope for Ina. Her early trick had a prodigious prospect 
in it, and it entirely upset her moral nature and the 
clearness of her logic ; and to the utter surprise of Kre- 
ger, changed the theory of his case. 

You mean,” interrupted Kreger hastily, ‘Hhat you 
heard that the children had been exchanged ? ” 

^^Oh, yes, that is it,” answered Ina, taking the hint 
that something was wrong in her remark, but not know- 
ing exactly what it was. 


234 Jicdith Carson; oi\ Which teas the Heiress. 

When did you first hear it ? ’’ quietly inquired Craw- 
ford Carpenter. 

Kreger saw that the examination was going from bad 
to worse. 

Please answer/’ said Carpenter. 

‘‘We do not depend/’ said Kreger, “upon hearsay, 
but upon positive evidence.” 

“ Nevertheless,” said Carpenter, “ she is your witness, 
and I prefer to have my question answered.” And he 
repeated the question. 

“When did you first hear that Frau Denker had 
exchanged the children before you and Judith exchanged 
upon the arrival of her husband ? ” 

Ina answered, “I do not remember.” 

“Did you hear Frau Denker say,” asked Carpenter, 
“ that she had exchanged the children ? ” 

“ I did hear her say so.” 

“Did you hear her say this in Europe or America?” 

“ Perhaps I heard it in America.” 

“ It is useless to go on this way. Do you not believe 
Emma to be your child ? ” 

“I have thought her my child, but they tell me she 
is not.” 

“ This is something like the truth! ” Carpenter said. 
Who has been talking to you whether she was or was not 
your child ? But I can see what I wanted to, and will 
not press the question.” 

“We have positive proof of what this poor nurse only 
has vague report,” said Kreger with an air of confidence 
not altogether easy, and turning to Carpenter he said: 
“Are you done with the witness?” 

“For the present.” 

“ Call Frau Denker,” said Kreger. 

Ah, thought the crowd, we will know all about it now. 


235 


This is the ChildT 

Ina retired, but Emma was no nearer the five millions 
than before. 

We have a witness that will conclude this matter, 
and show the poor, honest nurse has been deceived by 
another. Bring in Frau Denker. ” 

To Crawford Carpenter’s surprise they had sent to the 
Tyrol, and had actually brought Frau Denker to this 
country. Crawford Carpenter so hid his face that she 
would not recognize him, and she told to the referee the 
same story she had told to Crawford Carpenter at her 
own house in the Tyrol. When she began it was noticed 
that Crawford Carpenter sent his father away with some 
haste and went on with his notes. 

When Crawford Carpenter cross-examined Frau Den- 
ker she recognized his voice, and seemed delighted to 
see him again. We generally experience pleasure in 
meeting far away from home any one whom we have 
known or met at home. She and Crawford Carpenter 
actually shook hands with that mutual pleasure natural 
to. such a recognition. 

This meeting was a stunner to Kreger, for he did not 
know that Crawford Carpenter had ever gone beyond 
the testimony of Judith, the mother, and he was at a 
loss now to conjecture how much he did know. It was 
sure that Crawford Carpenter had been the first one in 
the Alps, and where else he had been and what other 
witnesses might be produced, was an unknown dread. 
But he still believed that the game was his. 

Frau Denker testified in substance as follows: 

I heard this lady (Judith) plan with her servant, 
before the birth of the children, to exchange the babies, 
if her husband should find out their hiding place. I 
cannot explain why, but a feeling I could not control 
made me strangely anxious, not so much to defeat her, 


236 Judith Garson ; or, Which teas the Heiress. 

as to do a secret and right act — to baffle a cheat. There 
was to me a certain pleasure in having so curious a secret. 
When the mothers were ill and weak, I exchanged the 
babies, so that when this lady exchanged with her ser- 
vant, to cheat the husband, each child would go to its 
right mother, and all come out right. It did not occur 
to me that when the final exchange was made the servant 
would become wet nurse to the lady’s child, and follow 
it to a distant country.” 

As it stood by this testimony, the father had gotten 
the right child, but each child had gotten the wrong 
mother. 

Who attended these two mothers at the birth of their 
children?” continued Carpenter. 

‘‘Frau Harman.” 

Where is she?” 

do not know. She came to this country soon after 
the birth of these children, and I have not seen her since.”" 

Was she your neighbor?” 

^^Yes.” 

Were you friends?” 

Oh, yes; Frau Harman was a good woman.” 

I suppose you would not know the children if you 
were to see them ? ” 

^‘How could I ? They must be young women now.” 
have no more questions at present.” 

A buzz of surprise ran around the immense throng. 
Kreger looked triumphant. His mind’s eye looked in 
upon huge bags of gold, and to his imagination it only 
needed a little ceremony and Emma and the gold were 
his. He then said in a tone of injured innocence, that 
he supposed that the counsel for the other claimant was 
now satisfied. 

Not in the least,” said Crawford Carpenter, ‘^our 
proof has but just begun.” 


^^TMs is the Child:’ 


237 


Judith, upon being put on the witness stand again, 
said that she liad never heard of any former exchange 
of the children. 

The crowd and Kreger looked at Judith and at Mary, 
as Frau Denker confirmed the statement of Ina, expect- 
ing to see them sink with utter discomfiture; hut not a 
muscle moved. Crawford Carpenter was as calm as 
usual. 

Kreger was evidently disappointed in the effect that 
he expected this testimony would produce on the other 
side. What could be in the wind? As it stood, the 
cause of Carpenter was ruined. Did he mean to impeach 
the testimony of either Frau Denker or of Ina? Ina’s 
testimony killed itself, as it was not likely that she would 
have made a permanent exchange of her child simply to 
oblige Parram. She could not make the world believe 
that she knew for seventeen years that Emma was 
Judith’s child, and that Judith had hers. 

Kreger frowned as Crawford Carpenter remarked: 

Ina’s testimony is an afterthought, and not a truthful 
one at that.” 

She had proved too much. 

Can you not sustain the testimony of Frau Denker? ” 
he asked in a tantalizing tone, exhibiting almost con- 
tempt for the weakness of the opposite side. 

Heaven and earth can not break down this testi- 
mony, and the pertinacity of the counsel is almost insult- 
ing,” was Kreger’s savage reply. 

‘‘We shall see,” said Crawford Carpenter. “You 
know what is said about the mills of the gods grinding- 
slow but sure. Are you through your testimony?” 

“We are, and it is enough, I am sure,” replied Kre- 
ger, as he took his seat, vexed that the case should be 
any further contested. 


238 Judith Carson; or. Which was the Heiress, 

Have you any further testimony, Mr. Carpenter?’’ 
inquired the referee. 

We have,” he answered. Bring in the witness,” 
and the bailiff came in with old Frau Harman on his 
arm and seated her in the witness chair. 

Who is this?” said Kroger to Ina. 

She replied: ‘‘It is Frau Harman, our doctress, I 
think.” 

“Where did she come from?” he inquired, and again 
his countenance sank, and he was fiercely calm, with a 
malicious desperation. 

“ Swear Frau Harman! ” 

As the old lady kissed the Bible and took her seat 
there was a silence of intense suspense in all the throng. 
The referee himself was restless with the culminating 
interest. The stenographer was nervous and nibbed 
his pencil anew. Must not this witness decide the case? 
Her appearance was in her favor. She had been in this 
country so long that she spoke quite good English, and 
could be understood entirely without an interpreter. 

“What is your name?” inquired Carpenter. 

“ Frau Harman.” 

“Please look around the room and tell the court 
whom you know here.” 

She at once pointed out Judith, and after some hesi- 
tation she recognized Ina. 

“ Did you attend these women at the birth of their 
children?” 

“I did.” 

“Were their children born on the same day or on 
different days?” 

“The birth of Ina’s child was first, and this so ex- 
cited Judith that she gave birth to her child within a 
few hours after.” 


‘‘This is the Child. 


239 


Do you know Frau Denker?’’ 

“1 do; we were neighbors.’’ 

‘‘How long did you attend the mothers and their 
infants ? ” 

“About four weeks.” 

“ Did either child bear any mark by which you would 
know it again?” 

“This lady’s (pointing to Judith) had one by which 
I should know it beyond doubt.” 

“ What and where is that mark?” 

“It is not an unfrequent bright red spot in the back 
of her neck, close up at the hair.” 

The two girls, now grown women, were pointed out 
fo her. 

The referee requested the two girls to allow the wit- 
ness to search for the mark. Down went the jetty 
masses of Emma’s hair like the sudden unfolding of a 
black cloud blown by the wind into threads. Frau Har- 
man lifted and parted it to the front over her shoulders, 
like the drapery of night over the face of a star. As 
Jason searched for the golden fleece, Frau Harman 
looked for the spot, but — it was not there. 

She then came to Mary, whose unbound and dishev- 
elled tresses fell around her head and bust like a nimbus 
of golden glory. Dressed in the plain uniform of a 
Protestant Sister of Mercy (for she was still at St. 
Luke’s), with her head bowed as in benediction, or as 
that of the Virgin over her divine child, and her whole 
form veiled by her beautiful hair, even as Eve before 
the angel, she stood enveloped in light and love. And 
there, high up on her graceful neck, close at the hair, 
was the bright red star, set by nature as the indellible 
seal to her title-deeds to millions. 

The features of the old German broke into the smiles 


240 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress, 

of a new joy as she saw again the remembered mark^ 
when, with her left hand upon the head of Mary, her 
face turned toward Crawford Carpenter, and the fore- 
finger pointing like fate to the mark, as the signature 
of God, said, This is the child of the lady called 
Judith.” 

But,” said Kreger, interrupting her, ^‘Frau Denker 
says she exchanged the children; how does the child 
with the mark remain with Judith, its mother, after 
two exchanges ? ” 

I will tell you,” said Frau Harman. Of course 
the mark on the child enabled me always to tell where 
she belonged, and I feared no final mischief. One (Jay 
when the mothers were asleep with fever, and the chil- 
dren were hut two days old, I saw Frau Denker, when 
she thought no one was near, take this child from Ju- 
dith and put it with Ina, and take Ina’s child and put 
it with Judith. As I was the nurse and with the chil- 
dren all the while, as soon as she went out I put it all 
right again, giving each child touts own mother, and as 
she and I were neighbors, I said nothing about it. So 
when the husband came, Judith must have had Ina’s 
child in her arms, and that was the child he took from 
her arms.” 

For a moment the silence was oppressive. So suddenly 
had the tide of fortune changed that the minds of the 
people came to a complete stand. 

The witness is with you, Mr. Kreger,” said Craw- 
ford Carpenter. 

^^How did you become a witness in this case?” asked 
Kreger. 

‘‘The foreign names of the witnesses in the case 
attracted my attention,” she answered. “ I was reading 
an account of a speech made by this gentleman, I sup- 


This is the GhiUy 


241 


pose/’ pointing to Crawford, and of what the papers 
said about the case, when all the circumstances of the 
birth came to my mind; and I remembered that I had 
something to do with a lady who deserted her husband 
and came to our little village to have her child, accom- 
panied by a servant, who was also to have a child, and 
that I attended them both. A few days after reading 
the account of the case in the papers, a clergyman called 
to bring me a tract and talk with me in German, as he 
said, to keep up his knowledge of it, and I told him of 
what occurred to me, and I wondered if the case in the 
court was not somehow the one I knew.” 

^‘Who was the clergyman?” asked Kreger. 

^^This is the one,” pointing to Rev. Meredith Car- 
penter, father of Crawford. 

Oh! ” exclaimed Kreger with a sneer. What did 
he tell you to say?” 

He told me that if I knew anything about the case 
I ought to tell all about it. ” 

Have you not seen many infants with special marks 
of one kind or another on them, especially at their 
birth?” 

I have.” 

Why should you remember this one so particularly, 
not having seen it for so long?” 

Because we who attend ladies at such times natur- 
ally look for marks, as signs of good or bad luck.” 

Did you speak of it at the time? ” 

I do not think I did.” 

Did you speak of it afterwards?” 

I did not.” 

Kreger, thinking that this looked badly for one of 
that class who put such importance upon signs and 
omens and marks, inquired: ^^Did you not mention it 
to Frau Denker?” 


242 Judith Carson; or. Which was the Heiress. 

I did not.’’ 

You remember, do you, all these sixteen or eighteen 
years, that you did not mention so extraordinary a thing 
as this mark, to which you attach so much importance, 
to Frau Denker or any one else? Why do you so dis- 
tinctly remember never mentioning the mark to her?” 

Because, after seeing her do what I did,” answered 
Frau Harman, thought it better to watch than to 
talk.” 

You have asked one question too much,” said Car- 
penter. 

The referee asked; Do you swear positively that the 
girl by whom you stand is the child of this lady?” 
pointing to Judith. 

‘‘1 know that this girl,” said Frau Harman, lifting 
Mary’s hair as if playing with a veil of smothered sun- 
beams or the tresses of a star, is the child of this lady,” 
pointing to Judith. But there is a mark on the other 
girl that will further decide. The baby of the servant, 
Ina, had scarcely any little toe on her left foot. It was 
so small as to be almost a deformity.” 

We have nothing more to say,” said Kreger. The 
referee may make his report.” 

The crowd dispersed. 

Thomas Kreger bundled up his papers, and as he 
turned from a lost cause towards the door, he turned to 
a prison, arrested for murder. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE MUEDER. 

As said before, an act is never done acting. That 
Knife! We have seen that when Kreger turned in dis- 
comfiture from the trial of the question of identity as to 
Emma and Mary, he turned to a prison. A strong 
head, strong passions, and a weak conscience, are an 
unsafe dependence for character and success. The great 
Bacon was no exception. Greatness of mind is not 
always greatness of character. Too much sunlight some- 
times is as fatal as too little. 

We must now recur to Mary’s visit to Kreger’s room. 

When Mary availed herself of Kreger’s indecision as 
to whether he should silence her by killing her, or take 
his chances of safety in her modesty and unwillingness 
to have the publicity of a scandal, and rushed from his 
presence, the knife, which she had snatched from him 
and still held, dropped from her hands over the rail of 
the balusters into a pile of rubbish on the floor below. 

This visit to Kreger she had kept a profound secret. 
She knew that her mother would be exceedingly dis- 
tressed to know of her peril, and the scandal of the town 
was indeed something most appalling. She was inno- 
cent, but could she make the world believe it? She had 
no witness of her acts, and no explanation that would 
remove all suspicion. To be discussed in connection 
with such an affair is most unfortunate to any woman. 
Omniscience only makes innocence a sufficiency. Ap- 
pearances of crime are sometimes as damaging as guilt. 
So Thomas Kreger found them. 

243 


244 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress, 

After Kreger departed for the country to await the 
development of the affair with Mary, in the room adjoin- 
ing and opening by key into the one he had rented for 
the special occasion mentioned, a young woman of about 
twenty years old was found in her bed, murdered. This 
is often the fate of these unfortunates. Too often they 
are gotten rid of by murder by a rival. The weariness 
of the betrayer is also a danger to his victim. In her 
side was found a stab, and other injuries disclosed a 
most brutal murder. The janitress knew nothing of 
the matter. She rented the room to the murdered girl, 
and that was all she could say about it. But circum- 
stances are sometimes puzzling witnesses. 

The reader must understand that after Aunt Kizzie 
came North with the Carpenter family, she came and 
went as the whim took her. She was one of the family, 
and worked for it much or little, as she pleased. It 
pleased this old servant to have some outside employ- 
ment for her occupation, and just at this time she had 
the care of some rooms which were rented to almost 
anyone who might apply for them. 

When the detectives began to work up the case of the 
murdered girl found in one of the rooms under Aunt 
Kizzie^s care, they sought for and interrogated her as to 
what she knew. 

Tell me, my good woman,’’ said the detective, ‘‘ did 
you hear anything in this room ! ” 

‘^Jes’ as I pass ’long,” answered Aunt Kizzie, ^‘I 
jes’ heered some ooman say: ‘ Open dat doah! ’ jes’ firm 
like she meant it.” 

‘^Did you hear no other voice in there?” 

^^No, massa. I was jes’ walkin’ ’long, an’ heered dat 
I say.” 

^^Did you see anyone go out?” 


The Murder, 


245 


I tells you, massa; as I was standin’ in de little place 
whar I keeps de broom an’ so on, down stars, I heered 
some one run down stars mighty quick, like a skeered 
chile, an’ I look out an’ seed a young gal run down an’ 
off quicker.” 

Didn’t you go and see what the matter was?” 

‘‘Massa, when I hears de rattle I doan’ hanker arter 
de snake. No, massa, dat I doan’.” 

The detective said to himself, “That girl flying down 
stairs must have committed the murder in a fit of jeal- 
ousy. Here is a clue. But who is the girl ? ” 

“ Could you describe the girl who ran down the stairs 
as you have said?” 

“No, massa, not ’zactly. She look mighty skeered 
an’ pale like. I tink I seed blood on her ban’s. I tink 
so. She runned like a skeered deer, an’ de dogs gainin’ 
on her.” 

‘ When did you go into the room where you heard 
the command to open the door?” 

“ I tells you, massa; I was workin’ on de rooms be- 
low all nex’ day. Day arter dat I works on de rooms 
up dar. Wen I comes to dat room gemmen had, I sees 
no key in de doah, an’ I goes in wid my key, an’ — ” 

“What did you find?” 

“ Well, massa, I finds ole newspapers an’ trash, an’ I 
jes’ puts dem all in de closet, to sorter straighten up de 
room like, jes’ for dat day, an’ in de nex’ room was de 
dead gal.” 

“Was there a door between the rooms?” 

“Yes, massa.” 

“Was there a key in the door?” 

“Yes, massa.” 

“ On which side was the key?” 

“I disremember.” 


246 Judith Carson; or. Which was the Heiress, 

The mind of the detective became more settled upon 
the theory that the girl who flew down stairs and escaped 
in the fast darkening hours of the night, was the crim- 
inal he wanted. From that moment he almost ceased 
to investigate circumstances, and directed all his ener- 
gies to find the girl. 

How unconscious was Mary of the toils that seemed 
fastening upon her. Equally unconscious was Kreger 
as to the bearing of circumstances upon him. Will the 
innocent suffer — will the guilty escape? Guilt antago- 
nizes and provokes attention; innocence harmonizes and 
is unobserved. 

As to Mary, the police were not upon the least trace 
of her. Whatever suspicion may, for a moment, have 
drifted towards her, it was suddenly changed by the dis- 
coveries of old Aunt Kizzie. She, like all servants of 
her kind, had a habit of putting rooms in order for the 
moment by hurrying things into out-of-the-way places 
— in closets, in dark corners, or under furniture, as was 
most convenient. When she went into the closet of 
Kreger’s room, after his temporary use, where she had 
thrown the loose papers and other light things, she 
picked up the scabbard of a knife. As was her way, she 
took it to her room of notions, where she kept her 
broom, dusters and buckets, to keep, as it might be 
called for. Not long after, as she was putting things to 
right in the hall below, rearranging the coal boxes and 
putting in better shape the odds and ends of cast-off 
furniture and so on that will collect about houses, she 
found the knife that Mary had dropped in her flight 
down stairs from KregeFs room. While grasping a wea- 
pon so unusual to her, it cut her hand and left upon it 
stains of blood. 

Aunt Kizzie, without any reflections in particular. 


The Murder. 


247 


upon finding this knife took it to her omnium gatherum 
room. The scabbard lying among her other assortment 
of things attracted her attention, and as the merest 
impulse of curiosity, she fitted the knife to the scabbard. 
The knife at the foot of the stairs fitted the scabbard 
found in the room of Kreger. 

The police, finding the search for the supposed per- 
son of the criminal utterly unavailing, returned to an 
investigation of the circumstances. They were richly 
rewarded for this, in what Aunt Kizzie told them. 
They had the knife — with blood on it — in an unusual 
place. The knife fitted the scabbard found in the room 
used by Kreger. 

There were some unexplained circumstances — such 
as the fiight of the girl for whom they had searched in 
vain — but they finally concluded that there were two 
concerned in the murder. The scabbard of the bloody 
knife found in Kreger’s room certainly proved him to 
be one. They hoped, whether vainly as we shall see, 
to find the confederated girl as the other. 

A young woman had been seen hunting for and enter- 
ing the room Kreger had engaged — a young woman 
about the same age, soon after was found dead in that 
very room. Kreger was conveniently away. Putting 
all these things together, a case of sufficient suspicion 
appeared against Kreger to put him under the secret 
observation of the police. 

Finding that Mary made no report, Kreger soon 
returned to the city and resumed his usual professional 
activities. But the destructive shadow of suspected 
crime was descending to envelop him. 

He was engaged in the great case of Judith’s estate, 
and the identity of* the child as the claimant, and the 
police, knowing that he was always in their power, gave 


248 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress, 

no alarm; but for one whole year sought to strengthen 
the chain of circumstances which pointed to his guilt. 
Concluding they could find nothing more against him, 
as he lost the case, the police determined to place him 
— as we have seen — under arrest. 

The sensation in the city was intense. He had been 
an active and prominent man for his years, dividing his 
attention about equally between politics and a profession 
of morality (while he practiced immorality); and, in 
every turn, money had come to him. 

But when he sat down in a prison cell and thought of 
the sudden fickleness of fortune, he Tvas amazed to find 
circumstance stronger than human plans and the future 
an unknown master. He saw the strong chain of prob- 
abilities against him. He was not guilty of that with 
which he was charged, but he was guilty of that which 
he dared not avow. 

The meeting of Mary in the court room, the evident 
understanding between her and Crawford Carpenter, 
whom he knew well as his proud master in school-day 
incidents, staggered him as to the course to be pursued. 
To prove himself innocent of the murder he must con- 
fess himself guilty of that assault upon a woman which 
subjected him to prison, if not to the punishment of 
Crawford Carpenter. 

Hoping that the chapter of accidents would come, as 
often before, to his relief, he simply did nothing. 

Would Mary not expose him? Would she keep her 
own secret? 

If he had known what passed in Mary’s mind, he 
would have felt easy about her. 

In Mary’s conversation with Crawford Carpenter about 
Kreger’s case, the latter remarked that there was some 
evident connection between the person whose bloody 


The Murder. 


249 


hand had stained the stair-railing and the knife found 
in the pile of rubbish. The knife fitted the scabbard 
found in Kreger’s room, next to that of the murdered 
girl, and seemed to make quite a case against him. 

Now Mary knew that these circumstances also pointed 
to her. She had had that knife, and had dropped it, 
the blood from her hand stained the stair-railing, and 
if a motive of jealousy or anything of that kind could 
be imagined, strangers might think a stronger case 
might be made out against her than against Kreger. 
Of course she knew herself innocent, but what course 
should she pursue ? Not to tell all was to permit Kreger, 
bad as he was, to be condemned either in court or at the 
bar of public opinion of that of which he was not guilty, 
though guilty of so much else. To save him she must 
expose a matter too painful to be remembered, and 
become the subject of public comment. For this reason, 
so long as Kreger was not in actual danger, she kept her 
secret locked in her own mind. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE MARRIAGE. 

The life of each person mentioned in these chapters 
has unfolded itself from its own princij^les, and has 
worked out its own problems. Evil has somewhere its 
retributions and good somewhere its compensations. 
The law of evolution teaches us that in everything there 
is a survival of the fittest. That which is bad must 
move on lines of destruction, and that which is good on 
lines of conservation and progress. 

Mary wished that on the day of her marriage no one 
should be unhappy on her account. So her first step 
towards preparing for that event was to liberate Kreger. 
She told Crawford Carpenter all about her affair with 
that man — that slie dropped the knife where it was 
found; that the blood on the stair-rail was from her 
hand; that she went to Kreger’s room as he appointed. 

Crawford Carpenter saw another illustration of the 
uncertainty of merely circumstantial evidence and the 
mistake running all through the chain of circumstances 
against Kreger, and he came forward to save his life 
again as he had once before, as we have mentioned. 

When Kreger was brought out for re-examination 
before the committing magistrate, Crawford Carpenter 
presented himself as witness, and claiming the protec- 
tion of a client’s confidential communications, testified 
that he had certain knowledge, by the confidential state- 
ments of the party who dropped the knife and whose 
blood was on the stair-railing, that the knife found could 
not have been used in the murder, and so far as the 

250 


251 


The Marriage, 

defendant and the murder were concerned no importance 
was to be attached to the coincidence between the scab- 
bard in Kreger’s room and the knife found in the rub- 
bish. This statement, coming from so high a source, 
was conclusive upon the mind of the committing magis- 
trate and Kreger was discharged. 

The mystery of this murdered girl must remain for 
the present unsolved. Around it is a romance and a 
tragedy that cannot now be told. It must await its 
time. 

A woman may not approve, but she will never desert 
the man who loves her and whom she loves. Love is 
first unconscious, then happy, but never critical. In- 
credulous as to wrong in her idol, love is woman’s sweet 
insanity. It is well for the redemption of man, however 
bad, that some woman will sustain him with her sympa- 
thy and inspire him with the motive of her love. 

Kreger had entirely won the heart of Emma, and she 
clung to him with all the strength of her German and 
all the warmth of her Italian blood. Love resents only 
its own wrongs, and in the chancery of her affections 
his tenderness to her cancelled his wrongs to others. 
Love is no iconoclast, and to its blind worship no idol 
is hideous. He was a god on the altar when love put 
out her eyes, and now, with a woman’s beautiful cre- 
dulity, she knelt in a more dependent happiness before 
the skeleton in his place. Kreger had not fallen in her 
heart. 

Mary was not resentful of Emma. Her lesson of love 
had been well learned. She made her a present upon 
her marriage with Kreger that might well content her. 

The marriage of Crawford Carpenter and Mary took 
place where no other has been or perhaps ever will be 
celebrated. Though now the possessor of millions, she 


252 Judith Carson; or, Which icas the Heiress. 

changed not from the gentleness which had been so con- 
stant a characteristic. She obtained permission to be 
married in the chapel of the hospital which had been to 
her a shelter of so many devout duties and sweet conse- 
crations of life. Good old Mr. Carpenter, like Jacob 
leaning on his staff, celebrated the rites. This chapel 
is in the center of this great building, and each floor of 
the wards open upon a gallery as it were, a triforium^ 
looking down upon the nave and the chancel. On these 
galleries the convalescent of the wards, without going 
up or down stairs, can attend prayers and retire when, 
disposed, disturbing no one. 

It was up in one corner of the second story of this 
gallery, immediately at the side of the chancel, that 
Mary had often knelt in those communings with the 
Invisible, in which her soul became transfigured and its 
strength renewed. At every bidding of prayer that 
young creature, whose life had been one tangled web of 
mystery, sought strength for the present and light for 
the future. With her little cap that meant consecratiou 
and subordination, her plain, close-fitting black serge 
dress that would somehow rebelliously refuse to hide 
the wavy and symmetrical contour of form, and a plain 
white collar, closely joined at the throat and pinned 
with a jet cross, she knelt to worship — and be wor- 
shiped. For, as the pale invalids, with sunken cheeks 
and staring eyes and shrivelled frames, came forth, like 
Lazarus from the tomb, there was no cordial more life- 
giving than the sacred presence of this half hidden 
angel. Nowhere could she have given so much pleasure 
as among these pallid faces, who smiled as they suffered 
in her presence and thanked God that the good could 
be so beautiful. 

Here, in this chapel, beneath the descending blessings 


353 


The Marriage. 

of every wrecked and shattered form that could crawl, 
or hobble, or be carried to the gallery, and beneath the 
l^ale faces bent down from every inch of the railing, like 
resurrected hosts looking back upon what was still 
angelic on earth, she was led to the altar by Crawford 
Carpenter. 

As she moved from the door of the chapel, which sym- 
bolized the beginning of her spiritual life, to the altar 
which should rise over its close — ‘^a spectacle indeed 
to angels and to men” — the peace of her own heart 
needed no preluding note from ‘^the tabret, the merry 
harp and the lute.” The only change in her dress was 
from the white cap of the sister to the white veil of the 
bride; and as she pledged her faith to man on earth, she 
confirmed her vows to God in heaven. 

At the unction of sacred benediction, no bridal ever 
sent up to tlie God who sactions human love such a soul- 
drawn amen, as came in one low voice from those 
invalids’ quivering lips. Tears of gratitude, like show- 
ering pearls, dropped upon her wedded form as she passed 
beneath these watchers, out into a world of larger suffer- 
ing and of darker paths. As she received the congratu- 
lations of the sisters and mother superior she left in her 
hands a check for a sum so large as to be beyond her 
permission to mention. Afterwards she and her mother 
built a home for sick strangers and a chapel of her own 
next to her own costly home. In this her mother became 
so interested that she took Mary’s place by the side of 
the sick beds of humanity for the rest of her days, and 
no picture could be more lovely than was presented when 
she and good old Meredith Carpenter, the father of her 
husband, too old and infirm to preach, but not too old 
to direct, passed through the wards, and all the poor 
and afflicted '‘Rose up and called her blessed.” This 
was the child of God. 


254 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress, 

The next scene upon which the patient reader is invi- 
ted to look is in the humble home of Crawford Oarpen- 
ter, to which Mary insisted upon going on her marriage. 
She would hear of no conspicuous bridal tour, but what- 
ever change might come afterwards, she desired to go 
from the altar to his home, however humble. It was 
her husband’s, and that was enough. 

When they arrived Crawford’s father, mother and 
sister, who had hastened back, were at the door to receive 
the two whom all hearts loved. But there was another. 

Come,” said Crawford, I wish you to see another,”' 
and taking Mary by the hand he led her into an upstairs 
back room comfortably furnished, warmed and lighted, 
and there, in a nice bed, lay the queen, lately almost 
blind and crippled by rheumatism, to receive them — 
old Aunt Kiss. 

^^Here, mammy, is my wife.” 

Lor’ bress yore heart, honey; come he’ar to yore ola 
mammy’s arms and let me hug yer.” And Crawford 
bent down over the old woman who had carried him in 
his infancy and watched over him from his youth and 
patted her on the cheek, and as her withered old black 
arms found their way around his neck and drew his 
handsome form down to her own, it was seen that affec- 
tion passes all barriers of color and condition, and that 
which is from Cod is for all. And turning from him to 
Mary, the old woman went on: 

Bress yer, missus, yer has got de most splendidest 
man in dis whole yearth.” 

Mary thought so too, but there was something so ludi- 
crous in this burst of affectionate admiration that both 
laughed and turned away satisfied, wherever they looked, 
within, without, around and above, here or hereafter, 
for the good and pure all is right. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 


THE LAST. 

Feelings change opinions, and opinions change feel- 
ings. Years have passed, and the catastrophe approaches. 

A carriage stopped at the door of what, years before, 
had been the splendid residence of George Parram, and 
the driver was told by the traveller in his carriage to ask 
the servant, who answered the bell, if Miss Emma Par- 
ram lived there, or if they could tell where she did live; 
but the servant knew nothing of her. This was repeated 
to the occupant of the carriage, who then told the driver 
to take him to the nearest hospital. He was told that 
there was a Home for Sick Strangers the very next door. 
The stranger said: 

Leave me there, then, for I can go no further; ’’ and 
a foreign invalid, from a ship just in port, with long 
white hair and beard, and oriental costume, was assis- 
ted out of the carriage and up to the door. 

His form was much wasted. His eyes were sunken, 
but bright with tender feeling. ,He might be in years, 
judging by the succumbing of nature, past sixty, though 
in fact he was not so old. His voice was soft and low 
as if a child’s tones had come back to the thin lips of 
age. 

Dear old Mr. Meredith Carpenter received him with 
all his deep kindliness of heart, and as all the free beds 
in the public wards were full, he provided the stranger 
with a private room without charge, where now and then 
more wealthy patients were accomodated, and for which 
a small compensation was expected. 


356 Judith Carson ; or. Which was the Heiress. 

The stranger was much exhausted by removal from 
the ship, but rallied with a glass of wine and a short rest. 
When in the course of a few hours, Mr. Meredith Car- 
penter inquired what name he should register, and where 
he was from, the stranger asked a postponement of such 
information, assuring the Eev. Mr. Carpenter that a full 
sketch of his life was in his papers, which he would place 
in his hands after a few days. 

Life sometimes runs off rapidly, and age seems to be 
early. A life of intense business, brain work, disease, 
and exhaustive pleasure make the young look faded and 
prematurely old. Parram looked old, so old. 

There was such courtesy of manner and such innocency 
of spirit in all that he said and seemed to be, that he 
was not then urged to speak of himself. He said that 
he had come there expecting to find a home and a child 
(of whom he would shortly speak), and all that he wanted 
just then was rest and privacy. 

The next morning after the stranger had been received, 
these two did not remember that they had ever met before. 
The Eev. Mr. Carpenter visited him, and found him 
much refreshed. He still was silent as to his name, but 
in his book of devotions, which he asked to be placed at 
his head, was inscribed in Greek simply 0 Metamaletikos, 
‘•'The Penitent.” 

In course of the morning, Judith, as usual, made her 
round through the wards and rooms, superintending all 
the executive duties, and joining with Mr. Carpenter in 
occasional devotions by the bedside of the more sick, 
saying a kind word here, and smoothing a pillow there, 
and carrying to each one all the sunshine possible to her 
shadowed life. But each patient felt stronger after she 
had passed. There was in her ministrations less tender- 
ness than composure. Her strength arose from a strong 


The Last, 


257 


will and a faith that tried to dismiss doubt. She came 
at length to the room of the stranger. As he lay with 
his long, white beard completely- hiding his lips, falling 
quite down his breast, and his hair parted in frosty locks 
upon his bloodless forehead, he seemed to her imagina- 
tion like a ruined temple around which the snows had 
drifted, guarding with cold purity without the shrines 
of serene purity within. He had fallen asleep and knew 
not of her coming, and she continued her round without 
disturbing him. 

Though unknown, yet he was evidently no common 
man. Though he came from the East, he could not be 
oriental in race, for he spoke only in the English tongue. 

Was he patriarch or Priest, or some homeless Sire 
whom the struggles of life had worn out and left to 
perish by the wayside alone? His premature old age, 
the mystery of his silence, and the serene expression of 
his face asleep, interested her. She expected to see 
more of him. 

In course of the day he awoke much refreshed and 
invigorated, and the Kev. Mr. Carpenter, like Judith, 
felt attracted to his side, and strongly desired to know 
more of him. 

see,” said Mr. Carpenter, ^Hhat while you speak 
English you are from the East. Your Bible is in mod- 
ern Creek.” 

Yes,” was the reply; ‘^1 am from Mount Sinai.” 

You could not have been a recluse there?” 

Yes, a recluse but not a monk. My sojourn there 
was voluntary, and not under vow.” 

“ What is the name of that monastery? ” 

It is popularly known as Santa Katarina, but the 
Creek Church calls it ‘ The Monastery of the Transfig- 
uration. ’ ” 


258 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

There is an interest,” remarked Mr. Carpenter, 
‘^around that spot that has no equal but Mount Cal- 
vary.” 

^^The one supplements the other,” replied The Pen- 
itent. 

Yes,” said Mr. Carpenter, ‘Hhe first gave us The 
Law as a school master to bring us to Calvary, the Mount 
of the Crucifixion.” 

‘^And that school master, which broken law imposes, 
is Suffering.” 

^^And we are perfected through suffering,” was Mr, 
Carpenter’s reply. 

In that way only,^^ emphasized The Penitent. 

Prosperity ” 

^^Begetteth fools,” interrupted the stranger. 

^^It misguides the mind,” said Mr. Carpenter. 

‘^And perverts the affections,” rejoined The Penitent. 
^^Consecrated prosperity,” he continued, ^^is a blessing; 
desecrated, it is a curse, and most souls vainly clutch at 
the blessing and finally grasp the curse. I once had it, 
to the undoing of a life;” and, with deep emotion, his 
breast heaved, the white beard spread over it like a sheet 
of foam lifted by a billow. 

Mr. Carpenter saw that The Penitent was too weak 
to go back to his life, which had evidently been one of 
vicissitudes, and he insisted upon his resting, and so 
made excuse to attend to further duties elsewhere. 

Day after day passed before Mr. Carpenter would 
allow The Penitent to renew his history. Judith, in 
the meantime, had also become acquainted with him 
and interested. She knew nothing of his life, except 
that he had been cloistered with the monks at Mt. Sinai. 
There was a childlike gratitude for all she did for him, 
that prompted her to give him every possible comfort. 


The Last, 


259 


He was known by no other name than The Penitent, 
and to them he was a venerable pilgrim whose life, evi- 
dently fast fading away, they were learning by parts. 

Mary came in and sat by his side, and read to him 
from her Bible. He preferred the history of Christ as 
recorded by the evangelists. Her three children were 
also out and in to amuse the invalid. 

One day he said to Mary, once had a daughter, 
who must now be about your age. But she is not where 
I left her, and is lost to my knowledge. She has moved 
away and married, perhaps, and I am too much enfeebled 
-ever to hunt her up. ” 

‘^Have you ever been here before?” 

Yes, years ago.” 

Where did you leave her? ’’-inquired Mary. 

I left her next door. This building has been erected 
since I knew this quarter of the city. But I did not 
deserve to have a daughter, for I saw but little of her. 
I was absorbed in business and seldom noticed her. I 
never taught her to love me or myself to love her. Per- 
hajis I should not know her if I saw l>er.” 

^^But her mother; what of her — ” and Mary was 
interrupted by the coming in of her oldest child, Judith, 
then six or eight years old, and when Mary pronounced 
her name The Penitent asked her to repeat it to be cer- 
tain what her name was. 

‘^Judith,” answered Mary. 

At the name Judith the invalid’s eyes were fixed on 
vacancy, as if running back the lines of memory, and 
for a moment he was silent. 

He took the little hand of the child in his as she stood 
with her bright, sweet face by his bedside, while with 
the other she smoothed his fiossy beard. Mr. Carpenter 
coming in, Mary and little Judith left. His room be- 


260 Judith Carson ; or, Which was the Heiress. 

came a sort of cloister, where each one in turn seemed 
to go and linger. The mystery that hung around all 
that the pilgrim said of himself, his deep faith and 
devotion, the utter humility of spirit excited in old Mr. 
Carpenter, in Judith and in Mary and in her children 
both love and veneration. Crawford Carpenter himself 
once came in and conversed with the invalid. But to 
all, time and experience put a mask on faces, and if 
these people had ever met before they knew it not. 

‘‘How do you feel to-day?” asked Kev. Mr. Carpen- 
ter as Mary and little J udith left. 

“I feel an unutterable repose of spirit,” he replied,, 
“for having cast all my care on my Father. I await 
His disposition of me with entire trust.” 

“ How tranquil is such a life,” said the clergyman. 

“ But my life has not always been such. I have beem 
the chief of sinners, and, of course, most wretched.” 

“ Yes,” was the answer, “ sin and misery are as insep- 
arable as mother and child.” 

“And, but for the presence of mercy in human desti- 
nies, wrong doing would utterly destroy us,’’ said The 
Penitent. 

“And mercy is so disguised!” exclaimed the clergy- 
man. 

“It takes all shapes,” replied the invalid. “Once 
when sin had driven me almost to complete madness, I 
went to a river to end my life in its dark caverns, when 
it so singularly happened that the body of a man who 
had preceded me in despair was drawn to the shore where 
I was standing. The horrible spectacle instantly shocked 
me from my purpose. But the alternative of dying or 
being unknown and forgotten was still before me. I 
saw that the dead might be taken for me, so like me 
was he in beard, clothing and stature. The thought 


The Last, 


261 


instantly took possession of me to put such papers as I 
had prepared for the identification of my own body upon 
his person and flee from the possible discovery of man. 
This I instantly put into execution. With what funds 
I had at command and had secured in my clothes to 
defray the expense of taking my body to America when 
found upon my self destruction, I fled, found my way 
to Egypt, intending to turn Arab, and, like Ishmael, 
live the rest of my days in the desert, lost to the knowl- 
edge of the world. At Cairo I joined a party starting 
for Judea by the way of Mt. Sinai. At this place, what 
with mental agony and exposure to the heat and dust of 
the desert, I was left, perhaps to die. I was exhausted. 
The fires had burnt too rapidly. The monks were 
unspeakably kind to me, particularly Eulutherius, a 
most devout and learned man. 

‘^Not to detain you, I recovered slowly, and my stay 
was prolonged. The sacred shelter soothed and comfor- 
ted me . The world was far away — its impassioned pur- 
suits, its strained and exhaustive energies, its mocking 
hopes — and there, high up on the beetling brow of 
mountain parapet, amidst peaks and solemn summits 
that looked upon Moses as he talked with Jehovah, I 
walked and knelt where Deity had engraved laws which 
I had broken in every word and line. Passions died. 
Keflection came. Eulutherius and I walked, and studied 
together. 

In changing its circumstances, life changed its pas- 
sions. I saw nature in her most sublime visage of desert, 
mount and solitude, and the play of her elements in all 
their awful strength. Fraternal affection opened the 
door of the heart; the imagination led my soul on to 
worlds and glories never explored by earth-bound hearts. 
It was a new world and I was a new man. To talk with 


262 Judith Carson; or, Which was the Heiress. 

God in the very spot where Moses had talked with Him 
thousands of years before, became the absorbing passion 
of the soul. Man was below and away. God and the 
angels only above and near.” 

The Penitent’s eyes grew solemn and moistened with 
recollections of tender awe, and the clergyman inter- 
rupted him with the inquiry, as if to somewhat relieve 
the conversation: 

“Are the monks, as a rule good men?” 

The Penitent said : “ While bad monks are not worse 

than other bad men, good monks are immeasurably better 
than other good men ; at least so I found Eulutherius. 
He truly walked with God and took me by the hand 
and taught me new thoughts, new motives, new ends of 
existence. It was my home for years and almost Heaven, 
and you may naturally ask why I left it. It was there 
I learned that I must leave that which I loved the most. 
I wished to go from there to the higher home of God. 
But Eulutherius showed me the way of duty, and when 
he died and left me alone I promptly followed it. 

“ I had wronged others and must make reparation. I 
must return to the haunts and institutions of men and 
meet the law which I had broken; and I am here to do 
or suffer as the awful majesty of authority may appoint.” 

At this moment Judith, having finished other duties, 
came in to look after the mysterious pilgrim. 

“ My heart,” he continued, “ that once had been all 
stone, was indeed changed.” 

His allusion to “ a heart of stone,” a common expres- 
sion to others, but full of memory to her, startled Judith, 
and turning her eyes full upon him, as if that which 
was her girlhood had glided into the present and had 
compressed into one thought, held her breath as he went 
on: 


The Last. 


263 


I indeed learned the truth of what I once said to 
another: ^ To change a heart of stone is to break 

A low moaning sigh struggled out of the breast of 
Judith as she sank into a chair, pallid and unconscious. 
She was borne from the room to her own apartments, 
and brain fever threatened her life. No one knew the 
cause of her sudden illness. Days and weeks passed; 
consciousness returned. Her strong constitution proved 
triumphant. 

The Penitent was no longer a mystery to her. He was 
no other than George Parram, returned, as he supposed, 
to satisfy the ends of the law. But as J udith recovered 
it was noticed that he grew much weaker. He had been 
told all. 

He learned that the decree of divorce which he had 
obtained against his wife had been annulled, and that 
Judith and he were yet husband and wife. He was in 
his own house, or one built with his money. All wrongs 
between husband and wife were now righted in the sphere 
of mutual and divine forgiveness. 

The Penitent, for such we may well call him to the 
end, was fast passing to a tribunal where he could 
respond to the God whom he now loved, rather than to 
man whom he once wronged. 

George and Judith having changed toward God, they 
were changed as to each other; and they who parted 
with hearts full of human hatred, were strangers when 
they met in after years, with hearts softened by super- 
human love. 

As we look forward in youth, our faces reflect the smil- 
ing hopes of the coming future; but, as we look back in 
age, they reflect the wrinkled disappointments of the 
departing past. 

When Judith and Parram met now they saw each 


264 Judith Carson ; or, Which tvas the Heiress. 

other’s face transfigured by both age and faith. In each 
a new soul was in the eyes; a new tone was in the voice; 
new words were upon the lips; new thoughts were in the 
mind. 

Old things had passed away with the life that had 
gone, and all things had become new in the immortality 
that was to come. Experience had led them througk 
the darkness of earthly passions to the light of celestial 
hope and peace. 

When the false life ended in time, the real life began 
in eternity. Parted at the vestibule of knowledge, they 
met at the inner sanctuary of faith. 

That which had been a pillar of fire to one, had been. 
a pillar of cloud to the other. 

Early Easter morning, when Judith was so far recov- 
ered as to be able to leave her room, she was sent for to 
the room of her dying husband. With a spiritual youth 
in a prematurely worn out body, and with an early 
Easter morning sun stealing into the room and resting 
on his hopeful features, sanctifying them with its morn- 
ing peacefulness, he was passing away. 

As she approached the bedside of the dying man, their 
eyes met, his dimmed by disease, suffering and approach- 
ing death, and hers wet with tears welled up from deep 
and solemn thoughts of the past. 

She took his extended hand, and sank upon the fioor, 
leaning her head for the moment upon the lap of Mary,, 
their child, who knew all, and was there with all a 
daughter’s loving tenderness. 

Mary’s two children now came in to see their grand- 
father, soon to be seen here no more. 

Crawford Carpenter was there and his father. The 
latter had the day before given the departing penitent. 


The Last. 


265 


the last sacrament, and now commended his departing 
spirit to the God who dwells aboye both Mount Sinai 
and Mount Calvary. 

With Judith’s hand held by the dying man, while his 
other rested in the soft clasp of Mary, who had gone to 
the side of the bed opposite to her mother, the close came. 

Mary had been awakened to go to her father, and 
hastened with her still rich suit of hair unbound. She 
bent over him to kiss for the last time on earth a father 
whom she had come to love; and as she pressed her lips 
to his, her mass of yet golden tresses fell upon his whiter 
beard and hair, and hid both faces. When she raised 
her head, she un vailed the calm features of the dead 
husband and father. * * * =5^ All was right at 

death 

As Judith was in the first scene, so she is in the last. 
She then wore silk; she now wears serge. As she walked 
from ward to ward of the hospital, systematizing its 
administration, pausing to see that no one was neglected, 
she wore in her face the fixed thoughts of older years, 
and the untranslatable expression of suffering in the 
insidious lines of past care. Though her life had gotten 
a wrong start in the worship of knowledge, it found a 
right end in the knowledge of worship. 

The sequence of the circumstances of life is a conse- 
quence of the persistence of an inner force: to avert the 
consequences, we must change the force. We reap that 
which we sow. 

We are characterized most by that which enters most 
into our lives. The latter eras of life grow out of the 
earlier. Men do not gather grapes of thorns nor figs of 
thistles. 

The human will is a factor in human life. Bad lives, 
like streams from earthly fountains, gravitate downwards 


266 Judith Carson; or^ Which was the Heiress. 


to the earth : good lives, like living tree tops from living 
roots, rise towards the life-giving sun. Like from like, 
and like to like. 

Judith began with the sphinx as her symbol of knowl- 
edge, but she ended at the cross as the sign of her suffer- 
ing. As she felt the suffering and bore its sign, the 
words of George Parram when he first met her, were 
ever in her soul as the predicted history of her life, — 
the sphinx has a heart of stone : to change is to break it. 


THE EHD. 








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